


Duet

by wearethewitches



Category: NCIS
Genre: Action & Romance, Adoption, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Death, Disabled Character, Domestic, F/M, Gen, Miscarriage, Murder, Papa Bear Jethro Gibbs, Post-Season/Series 04, Secret Relationship, Self-Indulgent, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: They kiss in the hospital.Or - Ziva and Gibbs are in a relationship.(Zibbs, Ziva-centric family fic, set mostly post-S4)
Relationships: Eli David & Ziva David, Michelle Lee/Jimmy Palmer, Ziva David & Anthony DiNozzo, Ziva David & Jimmy Palmer, Ziva David & Michelle Lee, Ziva David & Timothy McGee, Ziva David/Jethro Gibbs
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

They kiss in the hospital.

It’s a chaste sort of kiss, that could be taken either way; Ziva is crying, after all. Gibbs is in a gown and his head _pounds_ , part of him knowing that this hasn’t happened before. Half in the dark, Ziva buries her head into his neck and Gibbs says, _you’re so young._ Her dark curls smell like lavender. When he goes to Mexico, Ziva will treasure the memory of his comfort – but the comment on her age will sting, even though she knows that Kelly Gibbs and she would only have been two years apart.

After the death of Agent Paula Cassidy, they meet in his basement and share jars of Bourbon. Ziva doesn’t make a face at the taste, though she might want to. Gibbs is quiet. Age doesn’t matter anymore.

Eventually, Ziva tells him of her troubles, of why she came to his basement to drink his Bourbon. “There was a moment, before we brought the clerics into the building, where I talked to her. To Agent Cassidy. We were discussing reflexes – she called it jumping.” A pause – a moment that Ziva takes to ruminate, saying darkly, “I called it the difference between life and death.”

“…I told her we’d do the heavy lifting.”

Ziva lets out a bitter laugh, guilt weighing down her shoulders. “I do not like losing co-workers. Friends. I had thought that part of my life gone, for the moment.”

“In this job, Ziva, it never is,” says Gibbs, fierce like fire. He slams down his jar. “People die and sometimes, we can’t do anything to stop it from happening.”

“I know-”

“I _know_ you know,” Gibbs cuts in, making a noise of frustration. Ziva finishes her Bourbon in one gulp, a tense silence falling between the two of them, neither looking at the other. The death of a colleague is far from new to either of them, but Paula Cassidy is close to home – it stings, even to Ziva, who knows that Paula Cassidy is- _was_ important to her team.

_She knew Kate,_ Ziva recalls. Her heart clenches. Ari’s mistakes are her mistakes, when it comes to NCIS, whether it’s the end of a career or the end of a life.

“She was a friend.”

Ziva looks up. Gibbs is visibly aggrieved.

“Hell of an agent. Better than Tony – could outsmart him at his best and right now, he’s not.” _Another thing wrong,_ Ziva counts, wondering when they will finally learn what is keeping Tony so distracted. “Paula was good,” Gibbs says, repeating. “Hell of an agent. They’ve asked me to speak at her funeral.”

“Will you?” she asks.

“…yeah.”

“Make is good, for her,” Ziva says, almost challenging him. Gibbs’ expression starts to clear, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I will.”

Ziva smiles back at him and it’s then that she gets the urge to swoop forwards, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She doesn’t mean to linger – and Gibbs probably doesn’t mean to make it anything more, but he takes her chin before she can pull away and presses a kiss to her cheek too, anyway.

“Thanks, Ziva,” he whispers, hand falling out of sight. Ziva twists her head to look him in the eye and hears something behind her. Leaning back, she takes the bottle of Bourbon and pours herself a new finger in the nail jar she’d been given, watching Gibbs’ eyes track sideways and up; he looks at someone standing in the doorway.

_Jenny, perhaps?_ Ziva muses, but there’s no click of her heels and the breathing is different. Whoever it is, they aren’t Jen. Ziva downs her new set of Bourbon, aware she won’t be driving home tonight.

“I will be stealing your bed,” she enunciates clearly, standing. Gibbs raises an eyebrow at her.

“Okay.”

Ziva waves a silent _goodbye_ before turning, surprised to find Lt. Hollis Mann standing at the top of the stairs, looking confused and somewhat apprehensive. Ziva wonders what she thinks of them both – she’s clearly seen enough to have wild thoughts.

“Lieutenant,” Ziva greets as she walks up and past her, back into Gibbs’ house. Thinking on it herself, Ziva realises something strange. Their faces had been so close, the tension high…

Any other time and Ziva thinks she might have kissed him.

_Oh,_ she thinks, surprised at herself. Autopilot brings her to his front door, but Ziva changes course, heading for the stairs upwards. Alcohol consumption and driving do not mix. Her feet are silent on the carpeted floor as she walks to his room, dropping her thick jacket onto the foot of the bed and pulling off her boots. Her nightly regime is disrupted, jarred by the angry echo of Gibbs calling out for _Holly_. Ziva listens intently to the storming feet, the slammed front door and the car that revs off into the distance shortly after.

She is slowly removing her primary weapons when he appears in the doorway, just as quiet as she was when she first arrived.

“Damn woman just broke up with me. Said she didn’t appreciate being the other woman. _What other woman_ , I ask her? Oh, only my own agent, she says,” he mutters in an angry, bitter sort of way. Ziva turns her head only slightly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He doesn’t stay in the doorway long, throwing his warm jacket over a convenient chair and dropping onto the mattress with a muffled _thump._

Ziva doesn’t reply to him, only untying her hair and wishing she had a brush. Following him, she turns off the main light from beside the bed – _convenient,_ she thinks – and mutters, “If you kick me, I will kick back.”

“Fine by me.”

The next morning, she senses him wake while she stretches out, cracking her back and wondering if she has time to do her run if breaks a few speed limits. His hand grazes the small of her back where her shirt rides up and Ziva pauses. She expects the hand to drift away, but a moment later, she feels all five fingers and his calloused palm press against her skin, sliding to her waist beneath green fabric.

“If you keep going, I will have to make assumptions about how this morning will flatten,” Ziva says, teasing. Hearing him chuckle, Ziva sits patiently, the bed squeaking as he shuffles across the mattress.

“‘Bout how the morning will _turn,_ ” he corrects by her ear, kissing her hairline. Ziva cranes her neck to see his face, his thumb digging under her bra. “And how _will_ it turn, Miss David?”

“Special Agent Gibbs,” Ziva starts in mock-seriousness, reaching for his face and pressing their lips together. There’s a hint of tongue, a forcefulness to him that she should have expected. _Who shall win this battle?_ She thinks to herself, a dark part of her recalling Lt. Mann’s accusations.

If she were not the other woman _then_ , she is definitely the other woman _now_.

* * *

There are no more words that morning – no serious ones at least, not past _where are your prophylactics?_ And _I am on top, Gibbs. Do not argue with me._ She uses his shower after, but not his soap, then goes to her apartment for a change of clothes. The Mossad watcher in the opposite building gets a cheery wave as she exits.

It doesn’t quite impact their lives as much as one would expect. Both Ziva and Gibbs are perfectly capable of being professional both inside and outside the workplace; not often do they actually get together. Occasionally, there will be moment, like when Ziva puts her feet up against Gibbs’ desk instead of her own when they’re eating take-out in the bullpen and they share a glance that will lead to a shared bed and shared morning at either of their homes. Neither seems to like the cover of darkness for – instead, they prefer the dawn.

Not that they talk about it. Never, _ever_ , do they talk about. They just don’t. Not until the Chen case, at least.

It starts off like normal – _“Dead marine. Grab your bags.”_ – and then goes dangerously, _horrendously_ sideways as they arrive to a crowded street in a residential area, a masked man holding a Glock to the head of a four-year old and Military personnel surrounding the covered body of her father.

“Gibbs-”

“McGee, Dinozzo, get either side of this bastard. Ziva, go ‘round back and check the house for any other hostiles and hostages.”

The situation is hyper-tense. Ziva pushes through the many men and women on the sidewalk, Tim at her back as they enter the neighbouring plot. Guns out, Ziva silently points to the shoulder-height fence disguising their movements, reminding Tim to duck.

“You go first,” he insists when they get far enough back, motioning for her to climb. “You’re quicker.”

Ziva nods. The yelling in the front yard increases and she zones in, hauling herself up and over. Part of her itches to just shoot the man, but her knowledge of the situation is limited. He might shoot the girl, he might be covered in Semtex – or there might be co-conspirators watching from inside the house, with more hostages.

Taking the back door, Ziva enters the house, gun at the ready. There are no obvious signs of others, the kitchen, living and dining rooms all empty of life. Pictures on the wall show a family of three, including the child being held hostage outside and what Ziva assumes from build and body-weight, to be the dead Marine. Cautious, Ziva glimpses through the lace curtains of the living room. The man still holds the girl hostage – she’s crying, now. Loudly. It makes Ziva’s heart hurt for hearing it.

_Upstairs,_ she reminds herself, footsteps light as she rushes up, checking room after room. The child’s room is messy, and the bathroom is still steamed up from someone’s shower. _The Martin Family_ in alphabet foam shapes is artfully stuck to the bathtub tiles.

The girl’s mother is dead on the master bed, red streaking down her forehead. Her eyes are empty, her body already in _rigor mortis._

“Shit,” she curses, taking her phone out and calling Gibbs. The sound from the crowd comes in waves, but she hears his, _Gibbs._ “The house is clear, but the mother is already deceased: murdered. Point-blank range.”

“ _Get out here. Front door._ ” He hangs up and Ziva does not waste time, turning around and heading for the door, only to stop abruptly when she sees a fallen piece of paper by the doorframe.

Kneeling, she takes out a glove and uses it to pick up the edge, eyes scanning the list of names. What strikes her is the circled _ARTHUR & CATHY MARTIN (GIRL)_, though her concerns past that are the five other couples in black pen with bracketed girl/boy designations. One above the Martin’s is already scribbled out and another is ticked in a triumphant manner.

The quieting of the crowd outside tricks her out of her focus and Ziva drops the paper with the glove. When she gets to the front door, opening it quietly, she sees the aggressor and her team approaching slowly from either side, boxing him in. The man with the gun backs up, coming closer to the house and to Ziva.

She steps forwards, takes one step out of the door – and watches in slow-motion as he raises the girl up so Ziva can see her curly head of hair and shoots her point-blank.

The horror of it doesn’t register for a few seconds, _reflex_ lending her the action that is ducking, in case the bullet ricochets. Then, as he throws the girl’s lifeless body onto the grass, Ziva simply aims and fires. One bullet to the brain and the masked man is dead, too.

It replays in her head. A curly head of hair. The plain black gun. Tiny brains splattering across the grass. Ziva throws up unexpectedly, shaking as she leans against the beam of the veranda. Again. _Head. Gun. Brains._ A familiar body comes to stand beside her, resting a hand over hers where it curls around her gun – Gibbs, Ziva recognises.

“Come on, Ziva,” she hears him mutter, tugging her by the collar of her jacket. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the flash of a camera and Tony snapping at the photographer, grabbing the phone that dared take a picture of the devastating scene.

Gibbs leads her back inside the house, hiding her near the back so he can wrap his arms around her in private. Ziva shakes and doesn’t say a single word as he throws her cap on the floor, just so he can hug her tighter. Ziva has seen so many horrible things, but _this_ , _up close…_

Eventually, footsteps – _Tony’s_ – echo through the house. He sees them embracing and purses his lips.

“Another team is on the way to help control the scene. You don’t have time to cry over it, yet. Either of you.”

“We’re coming, Dinozzo,” Gibbs mutters and Tony nods, turning to leave. Ziva stops him, abruptly leaving Gibbs’ arms to catch his sleeve.

“Upstairs, the body of the mother is on the bed, but there is a list of names – targets, I believe. I picked it up using a glove. We need to process the names.”

Tony stares at her, unblinking, then nods. “You do it. There’s an evidence kit by the stairs.”

* * *

Ziva’s mind dissolves. She goes through the motions, flinching at her own thoughts over and over. _Head. Gun. Brains._ When they get back to the Navy Yard, Abby is her usual self and it is a balm to her soul, the second pair of arms to wrap her up feeding the tiny gremlin in her brain that wants comfort and the space to break down.

“Why do men do these things, Abby? Why- why _kill_ innocents?”

“I don’t know, Zeevs,” Abby squeezes hard enough to hurt, and they only break apart because Abby needs to process the evidence and fingerprint the list of names. Gibbs sends her home at seven that night – when he comes home at ten, she is there, waiting for him.

They have each other against the wall. Or rather, he has _her_ against the wall and her cheeks are wet with salt-water long before she cries out his name. He kisses her neck and bruises her clavicle with love-bites, bundling the both of them up on his sofa. The next morning, Gibbs passes her a set of clothes she’s left behind for these kinds of things and she doesn’t even bother visiting her apartment before showing up to work, Gibbs on her tail.

“Ziva. Boss,” Tony greets Gibbs as they make their way in, at the same time, to their desks. Tony’s movements are all purpose, no play. Not even a single smile to brighten the morning. He stands, using the clicker to bring up fifteen photos. He enlarges the first three: a Marine, her civilian husband and a toddler blearily staring at the camera stare back at them.

“Janice and Anton Sokolov and their five year old son, Phillip. Recently retired from active duty, Janice was killed two weeks ago in a supposed traffic accident, but the report says that the tires were shot. Anton disappeared from work the same day, as did their son, but Anton’s body was recently recovered and identified after being pulled from the bay. Phillip is still missing-” Tony’s head turns to the left “-and where were you, McProbester?”

“Reporters in my area caught me before I could escape in my car,” Tim snaps, unusually coarse. He strides past, dumping his stuff on the ground. “They recognised me from yesterday’s crime scene.”

The mood turns sour. _Head. Gun. Brains._ Tony’s grasp on the clicker visibly increases, knuckles whitening. Tim glares at his computer screen.

“…who are the others, Dinozzo?”

Tony turns to Gibbs, the three photos swapping out for another set. “Lieutenant-Commander Brian Stafford, his ex-wife Caroline and their two year old son, Marcus. The Lieutenant-Commander was short and killed in a drive-by. Unfortunately, his son was caught in the cross-fire, as was the wife. She’s in critical care, on a ventilator. They were crossed out on the list, while the Sokolov’s were not, though there was a tick. I think we can assume they abducted Phillip Sokolov and that the drive-by was on purpose.”

“Ya think?” Gibbs mutters, before taking a breath. “Good job, Tony.”

Tony doesn’t thank him for the compliment, only swapping the three out for the next. Ziva sucks in a breath at the images.

“Yesterday’s victims,” he starts, quieter. “Ensign Arthur Martin, his wife, Cathy, former Private in the Army before a medical discharge. Their daughter, Cay-Lynn Annamarie. Big name for a little girl.”

“Very little,” says Tim.

Ziva squeezes her eyes shut, the scene replaying again and again. _Head. Gun. Brains._ “He wanted to abduct her. Cay-Lynn. This is some amateur murder-kidnapping scheme by men who have no idea how to carry out said abductions.”

“Two dead kids out of three,” Tony mutters darkly, making the photos shrink, showing off the rest of the remaining nine. The pattern continues, with at least one Marine for a parent and a young child, though some pictures seem more up-to-date than others. The only toddler without has a question mark in a box. Tony points to their parents. “I’ve already put out an order to round them all up into protective custody – the Director understands my concerns. Most of them are abroad or home in-bound, but I couldn’t track these guys down. Their last known address was demolished recently.”

Gibbs fidgets, demanding an answer. “Who are they?”

Tony quickly enlarges the two photos of the parents, one from a driver’s license. The Marine of them is the woman, dark red hair pulled back tightly, but there’s clearly a lot of it. Her husband’s most identifying feature is his Asian heritage and the long scar across his temple and left eyebrow.

“Violet and Leung Chen, former Hong Kong national and Sergeant at Annapolis – Violet Chen, formerly Violet Dearing, being the Sergeant, I mean. Leung Chen worked at a grocery store, until three months ago when a fire turned the owner to ash and…that’s all I’ve got, so far.”

“McGee.” Gibbs barks, “Find out where they were, where they could be, _anything_. Dinozzo, chase up Sergeant Chen’s history, find out the connection between them and the other Marines. Ziva – search for that kid.”

_Kid._ Ziva straightens, nodding sharply. “On it, Gibbs.”

“You’d better,” he glares at her, before walking out of the bullpen towards the elevator. The three of them get to work, fast. Tony doesn’t even make any backwards comments about his life, Tim’s or Ziva’s, a miracle for sure. What Ziva hates, however, is how it can all be put down to the death of a four year old.

Her investigation into the child of Violent and Leung Chen leads to health insurance. Ziva squints at the screen and silently looks up _Down Syndrome_ in a search engine, wondering how a genetic defect can lead to so many problems. She does not know if this is something she should be looking into – not when Tim is across the room.

“McGee,” she calls out cautiously, “The Chen girl, her name is Daisy. I have been looking into the Chen family’s taxes and health insurance and they have been claiming that she has something called Down Syndrome. I do not know what that is. Is it important?”

Tony and Tim share a glance, one that says _Ziva is asking about something huge and awkward,_ but Ziva cannot imagine the condition is something so bad. Truthfully, the description of people with Down Syndrome is lighting a fire in the back of her mind, making her think _I know this_.

“Uh, Down Syndrome is…kind of bad, Ziva. I mean, lots of people have it in the US, but it’s not really talked about. People like that don’t usually go on to have…well, fulfilling lives.”

Ziva frowns. “How? Why?”

“They look a bit different to the average human being, Ziva,” Tony interjects, smile piteous. “Lots of health complications, too. Bit less smart in some cases, heart problems, half-deaf, blind or both, sometimes.”

Tim gestures at his face. “Flat faces, kind of thin eyes, short, with low muscle density. Like Fred, down in the cantina.”

“You are describing my sister,” Ziva says in a flat voice, the world righting itself as she realises the translation, finally, this time in Arabic rather than Hebrew. “ _Mutalazimat dawin_. My mother also had this condition. It affected Tali more than my mother, but both of them had _fulfilling lives_.”

Tim’s eyes go wide at her censure, the venom in her last words audible. Tony clears his throat.

“You walked right into that, McAbleist.”

“I didn’t- I just- and _you-_ ”

Tuning him out, Ziva turns back to the insurance of the Chen family. She reads carefully, keeping her horror at their medical fees contained and discovering what it means for one to be born with Down Syndrome in the United States of America.

Three days after she was born, Daisy Chen had open heart surgery and was fed both by her mother and with a gastric tube – something which Ziva has to search online to find the definition of, not trusting Tim to give her the right answer. The sheer amount of check-ups Daisy had to have as an infant is staggering, along with the price. The cost of medical fees in the US is extortionate, Ziva knows. It seems that Ziva is lucky she both comes from old money and gets her medical insurance through Mossad and NCIS.

_Oh Ima, if you could see this,_ she thinks, reading more into the Chen’s financial situation. Violet Chen’s military benefits cover most of the fees, but the closer to the present Ziva gets, the less information is available. By the time Daisy turned two, they’d basically disappeared from all insurance claims.

No, she realises, Ziva will not find more – not here. She looks in new places, keeping in mind that their lives may be on the line. She does not want to see young Daisy Chen in Ducky’s care and neither does she wish for Violet or Leung Chen to see that fate, either.

Tony finds the first break in the case, popping up to happily exclaim to Gibbs that all the Marines served together on the same aircraft carrier and were indeed all brought up on charges of manslaughter, but were let off when the charges were dropped.

“Manslaughter?” Gibbs stares at him. “How do two Lieutenant-Commanders, a pair of Sergeants and an Ensign all get charged for manslaughter at the same time?”

“I never said they were in the military at the same time, boss,” Tony grins, bringing up a DC driver’s license, newly made. “Arnold Cane. He blamed them all for the death of his three year old daughter, Jasmine, claiming they were responsible for her while having a private gathering at his house. They knew each other socially, same schools, high school sweethearts that went their separate ways – that kind of stuff. Jasmine Cane died in their backyard pool. Coroner ruled it as accidental drowning.”

“Where is he?”

“Here,” Tim says, a little more fervent that usual. He types fast, eyes glued to his screens as he explains. “He recently moved back to DC, three months ago to be exact. He recently finished divorcing his ex-wife, Jasmine’s mother, Belle Dearing.”

“Dearing?” Tony tilts his head. “Isn’t that-”

“Cousins. Close, if what I’m reading is right. Grew up in the same household, probably because of Violet Chen’s parents having died. Car crash.”

“Then why is she on this list?” Ziva questions, sensing the conundrum. “If Violet Chen is really his ex-wife’s close relative, surely they would know each other? Assuming that Arnold Cane is behind this scheme.”

“Blood have done worse to blood in the past,” says Gibbs, uneasiness clear as he sips his coffee. For a moment, things are silent, before Tony slowly taps the clicker, bringing up a new ID.

“I also got the ID on our dead guy. Local by the name of Richard Patterson. Thug for hire mostly, got a warrant out on him for arms dealing from the FBI, though. Let me tell you, the FBI guy I talked to was _not_ happy to hear he was dead and-”

The head-slap is not unexpected. “…and I’ll shut up now, thank-you, boss.”

“I want a warrant for his place.”

“Well, you’ll have to fight Fornell for it.”

“Oh,” Gibbs turns, dropping his empty coffee-cup in Tony’s trash. “I will.” He storms past Ziva’s desk, phone already to his ear. Tony twists, loosening up as he disappears into the elevator.

“So,” he starts, eyes locking on Ziva, “what was that, in the house? Getting cosy with the boss, huh?”

“Tony,” Ziva leans in, watching his mimic her movements with amusement, “if I was _getting cosy_ , as you call it, I would be careful what you say.”

“You planning on being wife number five, Ziva?” Tony grins, eyes dropping to the knife she opens up in his direction.

“Would you like to retract your statement?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

Ziva tilts her chin. “If I was, it would not be your business. As it is…it is still not your business, but no, I am not planning on being _wife number five._ ”

Tony opens his mouth to banter back, most likely something salacious, when another voice interjects humorously.

“Well, that’s a relief. I’m sure Lieutenant Mann will be relieved – I certainly am, if it means I don’t have to reassign you.”

Feeling as if her neck is made from clay and should be moved very, very carefully, Ziva looks to where Jenny is watching them with a smile from behind Tony’s desk, completely unaware of the truth as she saunters forwards.

“Your news is not up-to-date, Director,” Ziva can’t help but correct, mouth dry. “Gibbs and _Holly_ are no longer an item. They have not been for several months.”

Jenny’s smile falters and out of the corner of her eye, Ziva sees Tony’s mixed expression of intrigue and alarm before he hides it behind feigned neutrality.

“I see,” murmurs Jenny, tone dour. “I was…unaware of the change.”

“Something about not wanting to be the _other woman_ ,” says Ziva, almost drawling. _I am playing with fire,_ she thinks, seeing the glint in Jenny’s eye. Pretending confusion, she frowns. “To my knowledge, Gibbs is not seeing anyone else. The lieutenant, perhaps, was…what is the word? Insecure?”

“She seemed far from insecure when we met,” replies Jenny, before she becomes distracted by Cynthia murmuring something to her quietly. She pastes on a polite smile, nodding to them, “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Director.”

“Director.”

Tony waits until she’s out of earshot to pounce, hands on her desk. “You know something. Are you and Gibbs together? How did I miss that? I should have _seen_ – you come in to work together most days, anyway.”

“Not _most days,_ ” Ziva squawks in denial, frown becoming more genuine. She sits up. Do they come in together most days? Ziva will admit, while it’s been a week or two since she consecutively stayed at his home more than five days-

Ziva makes a face.

Tony points at it, gleeful. “Ha! You didn’t even realise!”

Losing patience quickly, Ziva bats at his hand, cursing at him in Hebrew. In her mind, she tries to compare her normal habits to her _Gibbs Habits_ , as she calls them, but there is a familiar emptiness in her brain that doesn’t come from inability to do mathematics. No, it is more like the emptiness of not being able to remember words she knows she has learned in the past. Ziva hates it.

Worse, is how frustrated, how _upset_ it makes her, on top of everything else. She wants to shut down – she wants to _cry_. Ziva does not feel like herself. Her stomach twists and she feels the need to throw up again. It hurts. The stress is too much and all the while, she keeps replaying yesterday.

_Head. Gun. Brains._

Something must show on her face, because Tony’s brows knit together and he frowns. “Ziva?”

She puts her hand up, squeezing her eyes shut. “No. Not today, Tony. I am…not good.”

“…right. I’ll just go back to me desk, then…another time.”

Ziva feels sick for the rest of the day.

* * *

An epiphany finally comes from McGee, who tracks the Chen family via bank payments for Leung Chen’s mother, an elderly woman living in an old folks’ home in Pennsylvania. From his mother to Leung, they find an address to go with the account; from there, they have an idea where to check.

“I will go,” Ziva offers, shaking her head when Tim offers to come. “If there is trouble, you know where I have gone. They are far down the list. The danger is not so severe.”

“Alright,” Tim says, hesitant, glancing at Tony’s empty desk. He’d gone down to visit Abby, in search of Gibbs. “Keep your phone on.”

A smile tugs at her lips, although she still feels off-kilter. “Of course,” she promises, before heading off into the night. Thunderclouds roll across the city, darkening the skies earlier than usual and causing deep, rolling thunder to echo between the buildings.

The Chen house is in a bad area. Graffiti covers a lot of the walls, windows are smashed in and rubbish lies strewn across the street. Ziva approaches the Chen household with apprehension, but her resolve solidifies as she knocks clearly. She recognises the woman who answers the door, the chain hanging loose – probably from a previous burglary.

“Violet Chen?”

Violet bites her lip, nodding.

Taking out her badge, Ziva shows her ID. “I am Officer Ziva David, with NCIS. Is your family home?”

“Lu’s out, hasn’t come back in a while,” Violet croaks, eyes watering. She opens the door wide to let her in. The inside of the house doesn’t much change from the outside, temperature-wise, but the floor is carpeted and a pram lays folded on the floor, a chewed rubber ducky in the seat.

“Your daughter, her name is Daisy, yes?”

“She’s asleep right now,” Violet mumbles, shutting the door and wedging a piece of wood under the handle. “Just through the house. We’ve only got the first floor. Are you here about Belle?”

“Belle Dearing?” Ziva confirms, getting a nod from Violet. “I do not know. Am I? There have been a series of murders and almost-abductions, recently. We discovered that they – you – were all associated through the incident with Jasmine Cane.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Violet makes a noise of worry, rubbing her forehead anxiously. She leads Ziva through to an empty kitchen, sitting on one of the two mismatched chairs around a small table. A travel cot stands near an open, working oven and inside the cot, Ziva can see a small toddler who looks more like an older baby than a three year old.

Sitting opposite Violet – and politely ignoring the oven – Ziva focuses on the clearly exhausted woman. Few characteristics of the military seemed to have survive in her, bar the tightly bound hair and clean clothes. Apart from the dark rings beneath her eyes and the lost expression, Violet is actually put together quite well. She doesn’t look like she lives in poverty.

The former-Sergeant fidgets, then starts speaking. “Jasmine’s death was an accident. It was our fault, for not looking after her while Arnie and Belle were out, but it was still just an accident. We didn’t know she could open doors, at that age – none of us had kids.” Violet rubs at her forehead again, tired. “Belle didn’t see it that way. Arnie tried to get her to see someone, for psychiatric healing, y’know? But she didn’t want it. She just wanted us in jail for her baby’s death.”

Not having expected the story, Ziva starts putting the pieces together, realising that Violet Chen might have the answers they’re looking for.

“She’s mental, now,” Violet continues, still fidgeting, looking over at the travel cot longingly. “I invited her to see Daze when she was born, and she tried to strangle her right in front of me. Lu and I moved – had to. She was following us, trying to kill her. We couldn’t afford court fees to get a restraining order, not with her Down Syndrome. Medical bills are awful.”

“Do you believe your cousin to be involved in the murders of Arthur, Cathy and Cay-Lynn Martin, Janice and Anton Sokolov and Brian and Marcus Stafford; the attempted murder of Caroline Stafford; and the kidnapping of Phillip Sokolov?”

The other woman shudders, standing abruptly to fetch her daughter, picking her up from inside the travel cot and turning off the oven. Daisy Chen squirms in her arms, making a noise of distress as Violet holds her close. Side by side, Ziva can see the similarities. Like her mother, Daisy Chen has thick, red-brown hair, her fringe tied on top of her head with a cream ribbon like a funny, lopsided unicorn horn – though unlike her mother and indeed, Ziva, her hair lacks any sort of curl or wave, being perfectly straight and silky.

“I wouldn’t be surprised, to be honest, Agent David,” says Violet, kissing her daughter’s head. The love she holds for her child is palpable and Ziva can’t help imagining Cathy Martin with her daughter, flinching at the reminder.

_Head. Gun. Brains._

“She got her parents’ money in the Will. They cut me out after Jasmine died,” she continues, quiet. “She was always a divide and conquer girl. Arnie was always so supportive of her-”

Violet is interrupted by a loud _crash_ , the door slamming open. Ziva is on her feet in a moment, gun in hand when a screech resonates through the Chen home.

“ _VIOLET! WHERE ARE YOU, MURDERER?_ ”

“Get behind m-” Ziva starts to say, only to be suddenly handed Daisy, who begins to cry at the noise. Violet’s eyes are bright and full of fervour as she forces Daisy into Ziva’s arms.

“Keep her safe. There’s a locked door to a staircase between the living room and the kitchen that leads upstairs. _Go._ ” Violet whispers fiercely, before rushing out of the kitchen, back the way they came in. For a moment, Ziva is frozen, but then she tucks her gun away, juggling the child and turning her around so her face is pressed to the collar of her jacket.

_Staircase,_ Ziva repeats in her mind, recalling the floor-plan she’d already seen on the way in. Soothing Daisy as she moves, Ziva flinches at the loud argument going on between cousins. Violet lets out a loud, pained shout when Belle Dearing tells her that Leung Chen is dead.

The door is locked when Ziva finds it, but the key is in the lock. Turning it – wincing at the loud _click_ – Ziva nearly trips over the boxes piled up on the stairs. A tiny gap between the wall and the boxes is enough for her to walk through, however and she balances precariously, shutting the door behind her. Throughout it all, Daisy keeps crying, wailing for her mother, for quiet, for warmth.

“Shh, darling, shh…” Ziva passes the boxes and sits down, resting Daisy on her lap. Her gun is set beside her within reach as she calls _1_ on her speed-dial. The phone rings and she hears a gunshot downstairs – but Belle and Violet are still screaming at each other. Still alive.

The phone connects. “ _Gibbs._ ”

“Gibbs,” Ziva presses a kiss to Daisy’s hair, holding her close. “Belle Dearing is here, at Violet Chen’s house. McGee has the address. Shots have been fired. I am currently hidden in a small stairwell with Daisy Chen. She may be behind the murders and kidnapping.”

“ _Stay where you are. We’re on our way. Try to calm down the kid._ ”

“Understood,” Ziva says, before hanging up and working on calming down the little girl. She is so small, with a familiar lavender scent to her skin. Ziva bundles her up, grateful she is merely distressed, searching for comfort, rather than angry or fussy. The situation is too precarious – Ziva cannot afford Daisy to be wriggly.

Eventually, however, Daisy merely cries quietly into Ziva’s jacket, wails tapering off. Ziva picks up her gun, the safety off and the barrel aimed at the door. She can hear Belle Dearing shouting, but the words are muffled and Ziva cannot translate normal English sometimes, let alone when her hearing is compromised.

Deep breaths keep her calm. But then comes the second gunshot, which flies through the door and creates a beam of light into the staircase, before it slowly creaks open. A third shot has Ziva readjusting her grip, Belle Dearing letting out a deranged laugh. A heavy set of footsteps turns the tension up to eleven.

“ _Where’s the kid?_ ” Ziva identifies the voice as male.

“ _I heard it screaming._ ” Belle Dearing. “ _It’s somewhere around here. I don’t want this one._ ”

“ _That’s fine, honey. Your cousin is the worst one out of them all, anyway. We’ve got Phil, anyway. We can choose between him and the others._ ”

“ _Yeah, him and the others. You like Phil, don’t you?_ ”

“ _Yeah._ ”

Ziva prays. She prays that Daisy will stay quiet, that her team will get here soon, that who can only be Arnold Cane does not find them, or Belle Dearing. Her stomach rolls.

Footsteps. “ _Kid’s not in the crib. Where the fuck is she?_ ”

“ _It, Arnie. Violet’s baby isn’t a proper baby._ ”

“ _Still a human, B-_ ”

Ziva hears them getting closer, stopping close by. “ _Arnie, what’s this? This is a one-roomed apartment, what’s this door?_ ”

She raises her gun, fully expecting to shoot someone. Her other arm wraps around Daisy, adjusting it so her ears are covered. The door starts to open, the beam of light moving, when she hears them: her salvation.

“ **NCIS, put your hands in the air!** ”

“ _Shit!_ ” Shots ring out and the door swings open. Ziva meets the dark green eyes of Belle Dearing, then fires. The woman stumbles back, falling against the wall and sliding down, leaving a red trail. Ziva hears Arnold Cane swear again, before he trips over the body of his ex-wife and falls backwards. Tony appears, stepping half-over Belle Dearing and checking the staircase, finding her there. He nods briefly before turning his gun back on Arnold Cane.

Ziva puts her gun down, safety back on, then hides her face in Daisy’s peach-coloured onesie.


	2. Chapter 2

They don’t really separate. While the crime scene is being secured by Gibbs and Tony, Tim escorts Ziva and Daisy to the hospital, mainly so Daisy can get checked over; after over a year away from regular doctors, it’s probably a good idea. Ziva holds onto the quiet toddler, who she still thinks is small for a three year old and in return, young Daisy holds onto her, hands grasping at the collar of her jacket – mouth gumming on one of her buttons.

“She’s cute,” says Tim, once they’re set inside a private room at Suburban Hospital, near Bethesda. Ziva starkly remembers his earlier comments of the day.

“Yes and she is sure to lead a fulfilling life, too,” she says smartly, watching Tim wince.

“Are you going to hold that against me forever?”

“Yes,” Ziva answers, serious. Their eyes meet. “Maybe, it is somewhat true, for those who do not have the support they need. My sister, Tali, was treated badly by her classmates – until my mother came to our school and taught a seminar on disabilities. It was a slap in the face for Tali’s peers to see someone with _mutalazimat dawin_ telling them off for their behaviour. My mother was a nurse. She has lived a good, wonderful life and will continue to, till the day she dies.”

Tim looks down. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” says Ziva, before the curtain opens. A doctor greets them both, directing Ziva to lay Daisy down on the table that acts both as a warming bed and a set of scales. Tim’s phone rings and he raises a hand to warn Ziva as he leaves.

“At first glance, she seems healthy,” the doctor says plainly, after undressing her and going through the motions. “But I’ve read over what records you were able to gather. She hasn’t grown much in a year or put on a lot of weight. That could have repercussions on other parts of her wellbeing and development. She might have to go back on a gastric tube, depending on how well she eats.”

“Can that be a problem?” Ziva frowns, unable to recall any ‘baby mess’, as it were, from the Chen household – everything was clean and tidy.

The doctor shrugs, testing Daisy’s arms and legs. “Some babies with Down Syndrome have texture problems, meaning they don’t eat more than basic foods like applesauce or soup. They grow out of it, most of the time, more due to persistence than anything else, but at this age, that won’t happen. We’ll keep her overnight, watch her, see how she reacts to normal input and get a baseline for her behaviour.”

“I have to stay with her,” Ziva tells them, just as Daisy starts to whine, arms reaching out for her. She takes Daisy’s hand, but the girl obviously isn’t satisfied.

The doctor chuckles and redoes the buttons of Daisy’s clothes, saying, “I don’t think she’ll be arguing with you on that. Pick her up, I’ll show you to the Children’s Ward. What do you know about Down Syndrome?”

“Two members of my family were affected.” Ziva shares, “My sister inherited it from our mother.”

For a moment, the doctor seems to be thinking, before they say, “Translocation Down’s syndrome – the hereditary version. Your own children by blood might have the same disability.”

“I see,” Ziva says, finally picking Daisy up from the table. Daisy coos, grabbing at her jacket again. She listens to the doctor as he describes the three forms of Down Syndrome – Trisomy 21, Translocation Down’s Syndrome and Mosaic Down Syndrome, Trisomy being the most common and the version Daisy Chen has.

“I’m not well-versed, but I know the basics, enough to give general care to regular patients,” the doctor tells her. “Do you know where in the area she’ll be placed? It’ll be easier in the long run if she just stays at the same hospital for everything.”

Hesitant to answer – not knowing – Ziva smiles in a strained manner, staying silent. The doctor doesn’t continue the conversation and only when they come to the Children’s Ward, does Ziva remember to text McGee. He replies while the nurses are getting Daisy settled in, stating that Gibbs has called him back to the crime scene to take over with Dinozzo; Gibbs in turn would be coming to check up on her.

Stomach rolling, Ziva feels a cramping pain in her abdomen that, coupled with her sudden nausea, has her speed-walking to the nearest bathroom. Despite being in a hospital, Ziva thinks that it’s the worst place her body could decide to be ill in, as a nurse knocks, poking her head through the open door.

“Is everything alright?”

Ziva doesn’t answer, feeling a sweat break out on her forehead. She sees the nurse approach, crouching beside her kneeling form, scrutinising her.

“Is your child somewhere in the ward?”

“Just came in,” Ziva mutters – or she wants to, at least. She’s not so sure if she actually spoke, too busy throwing up again. Her mouth tastes like acid and coffee and there’s a wetness between her legs that makes her blood run cold. Retching again, she feels the nurse press a paper towel to her forehead.

“Do you feel as if you need care?” The nurse asks, voice calm. Ziva draws from it, retching until the urge fades and she can wipe her mouth, rinsing in the sink and flushing. The nurse hovers near the door and Ziva shakes her head, feeling as if an electric current is running under her skin.

“I will be fine. I have not had the best two days,” she reveals, but the nurse isn’t so happy.

“Some of the children in the Ward are quite ill, miss. If you’re infectious, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

More wetness. Ziva is afraid to sit down and find it has soaked through. _Not again,_ she thinks, desperate. “I need to check something,” she forces out, swallowing. “Please.”

The nurse purses her lips, then slips outside, shutting the door. Swiftly, Ziva removes her coat and sits on the toilet seat, trousers between her knees. A glistening red greets her, three weeks early. She stares at it, mind blanking at the sight of blood, the cramping increasing and the _dripping_ turning her brain inside out. Ziva closes her eyes, only opening them when the nurse knocks again, loudly.

“ _Ma’am, can I come in?_ ”

Ziva finds herself terrified. She knows what is happening and it scares her. _Not again,_ she thinks, _not again_. A scrambled _yes_ escapes her and then there is a nurse and it is all a blur.

“I think I am pregnant,” she says, the words slipping out easier than she expected them to. “I am bleeding and in pain. I would like help, please.”

“Alright,” the nurse says, though her eyes are wider now. After a moment’s struggle, she pats Ziva’s knee and says, “I’m going to get another nurse and then we’re going to get you transferred to a private room. What’s your name?”

“Ziva David, Mossad Officer for NCIS,” she murmurs, catching the nurse’s wrist. “I am here with Daisy Chen. She is supposed to be under guard, for her protection. If I am leaving the ward, you will need to call Security to watch her.”

“Alright, I can do that. You just wait here, Ziva.”

She waits.

* * *

An hour later, Gibbs calls her.

It hadn’t occurred to her to think about him, not at this point. A doctor had seen her, confirming an ongoing miscarriage of a fourteen week fetus and the nurses had arranged for some new underwear, along with heavy-duty pads. According to the doctor, allowing it to pass naturally would be the best idea and it would just take time; she should make an appointment with her usual doctor in the next couple of days to remove her birth control coil and make sure everything’s as it should be.

 _Gibbs,_ she thinks in horror as she declines his call. He’s most likely in the Children’s Ward, pacing, wondering where the hell she is and asking why she’d leave Daisy Chen alone with only Hospital Security. Gibbs won’t know that she’s two floors down, but will probably ask very, very soon and be directed her way.

Gibbs.

Hiding her face in her hands, Ziva makes the decision to pretend nothing is wrong, like she wasn’t pregnant with his child up until whenever the hell she started miscarrying. They gave her painkillers, which have already taken effect, so when she gets up out of the bed, there are no cramps to stop her – only a deep-seated ache and the flinch-worthy wetness between her thighs.

The nurses do not like that she is signing herself out AMA, but it has to be done. When the paperwork is signed, the bill sent directly to her rather than going through her insurance provider, through NCIS and Mossad – _she is not letting anyone know she was here, she cannot afford people to know_ – Ziva makes her way back to the Children’s Ward.

When she arrives, Gibbs grabs her arm and glares. “Where the hell were you?”

“I am back.”

“Tell me where you were.”

Ziva starts to glare back at him. Behind him, Ziva can see the nurses looking at her in concern. “I did not leave the hospital. You will not investigate. I am back.”

“You don’t tell me what I investigate or not,” Gibbs growls, only for the nurse that first saw Ziva to come swanning up, clearing her throat. Gibbs turns. “What?”

The nurse glares. Somehow, it is more threatening that Gibbs’. “If you continue, Special Agent Gibbs, I will have you removed. Officer David told us she was returning and that she would be immediately available if anything happened. Please take your hand off her, before I turn Security on _you_.”

His hand drops from Ziva’s arm, though it feels like a burn where he grasped her. Ziva mouths a silent _thank-you_ to the nurse behind him, before she quietly presses past them both to return to Daisy’s side. By the time Gibbs joins her again, she’s curled up on a visitor’s seat, watching Daisy sleep, dead to the world with a yellow tube in her nose.

“Don’t _ever_ leave your post again,” he mutters. She doesn’t reply. “Bring her back to NCIS HQ tomorrow for nine. Child Services will pick her up and take her from there.”

Ziva is unable to help asking him. “Do you ever want children?” She corrects herself, “Would you ever wish for another?” He’s silent and it grates on her. Ziva curls her arms tighter around her legs, knees beneath her chin. “Because I do. So much has happened in the last two days and it has made me think of many things. You and I are…something. Together. This is not the time to lose words.”

A long silence passes.

Ziva closes her eyes.

_Head. Gun. Brains._

“I’d support you in having a kid – not mine, though.” Hearing his answer leaves her frozen and Ziva doesn’t look back in time to see him leave, a slow realisation coming to her. If she were not miscarrying now, she would be pregnant. She would be having his child.

He would not want it.

 _But how?_ Her mind screams. _How can he support me, but not want his own child?_ Ziva thinks to herself that he might mean adoption, though ‘supporting’ her in that endeavour would be a hell of a lot of work and commitment on his part, considering how she isn’t even a citizen in this country. Curling tighter into herself, feeling a sharp ache that might have been a spine-tingling twinge of hurt, beneath the painkillers, Ziva wonders if she should even tell him of the miscarriage.

 _It’s not as if he even wants the child. Any child._ A lump forms in her throat, tears prickling her eyes. _I will not tell him. I refuse._

A rift forms in her heart. The part that wants children, that wants a _family_ will not get to be shared with Gibbs, not unless he changes his mind. Ziva does not know if she wants to be in a relationship with him, anymore. This, she understands, is why communication is key. A sadness envelops her, one that wants early mornings with Gibbs to be untainted by this new knowledge, that wishes for the warmth he brings in cold evenings and the knowledge that she isn’t alone at night.

The nurse checks on her often, throughout the night. She even supplies her with another pad. At four am, Daisy wakes up. She cries, tears running down her cheeks and at the nurse’s behest, Ziva cradles her on her lap until she calms – which takes a very long time. Ziva is nodding off with a still half-whimpering Daisy in her lap at six am, when Tony arrives, also exhausted.

“Hey,” he greets, blinking rapidly. “I’m here to drive you. How’s the munchkin?”

“Not supposed to be in Navy Yard till nine. Sleep, Tony,” Ziva readjusts her grip on Daisy, who tries to tug at her nose-tube. Ziva stops her smoothly, entwining their fingers. Tony, grateful, drops into the second chair and kicks his feet up, falling into a nap after some minor fidgeting.

Trusting Tony to wake up at the slightest provocation, Ziva allows herself an hour and a half. At twenty minutes to eight, she begins the process to release Daisy from the Ward along with three weeks’ worth of tube feed, all on NCIS’ dime. Tony is awakened shortly afterwards.

“Time to go?”

“Time to go.”

It is only in the car that her cramps suddenly worsen. Not wanting Tony to figure out that something is wrong, Ziva keeps her face passive. It helps that she sits in the backseat, seeing as they have no car-seat for Daisy. By the time they’re at the Navy Yard, Ziva has that fear all women get, paranoid that she’s bled through and everyone can see.

At the bullpen, she doesn’t even sit, standing in front of her desk with Daisy in wait of the Child Services representative. Daisy has fallen into an uneasy sleep.

“How was she?” Gibbs asks her, gesturing to the toddler. Ziva shrugs, smiling tightly. She thinks of the child she’s losing, Daisy who will disappear from her life in less than an hour and Cay-Lynn Martin, who was shot in the head nearly three days ago.

“It could have been worse,” she says. “She slept most of the night, then work up unexpectedly in the early morning. She has not slept since. She may miss her parents or still be frightened. I do not know.”

 _I need to get to a bathroom,_ Ziva thinks, containing her shudder as an urge to tense flows through her. She remembers the last time this happened, when she was nineteen and naïve as to what kind of things she could do while pregnant. Eli David had been furious upon hearing she collapsed mid-mission – she’d only been two months along, like now.

Part of her wants to hide, to disappear for a week and have time off to heal and grieve. Her mission partner had gotten her to lie in a bathroom while she completed their goal, all on her own. Ziva does not like remembering that day.

“Write up your report once Miss Chen is away,” Gibbs instructs her. Ziva nods, remaining silent in the time it takes for the representative to arrive.

Daisy clinging to her makes her want for a family surface. Ziva strokes her head gently, fixing the stray red-brown fly-aways. One of the nurses had undone the ribbon holding back her fringe and now it flops over her eyes, needing cut. She doesn’t want to leave Daisy to a stranger, she realises. Maybe it’s hormones or a Palaeolithic parental instinct driving her, but Ziva _wants_ her – wants to take care of her and hear her talk for the first time.

By accident, she sees Gibbs watching her and their eyes meet, Ziva looking away in shame. She chastises herself – he told her just last night that he did not want children. _No, Ziva,_ she scolds.

The elevator dings. Ziva turns to see two visitors, one holding a briefcase and the other, an empty baby car-seat, fit with a sun and moon mobile on the overhead handle. For a moment, Ziva’s lips twist in dissatisfaction. Daisy is a toddler, not a baby.

Upon seeing Daisy in her arms, the two make their way over. “Is this Daisy Chen?” the woman holding the briefcase asks, gesturing to her. Gibbs stands, making his way over.

“Special Agent Gibbs,” he introduces himself, waiting for their reply.

The woman inclines her head. “Louisa Beckett, Child Services. This is my colleague, Frank Carson – we’ll be taking custody of Daisy Chen. Your legal team faxed over the paperwork this morning. All we need is a signature and a copy of the report made by the agent who found her.”

“I did not find her,” Ziva interrupts, “her mother made me hide in a stairwell while she faced the aggressors who murdered her and made to abduct her daughter. She was orphaned, not abandoned.”

Beckett’s smile is more of a grimace. “If we could get that in writing in the next seventy-two hours, that would be great.” She raises her arms, as if to take her, but Ziva finds herself holding on tighter.

“What will happen to her? Where will she go?”

Gibbs murmurs her name, “Ziva.”

“It’s alright,” Beckett says to him, “this happens. Law enforcement officers usually get attached to their charges, in cases like these. We see it a lot, unfortunately.” Her attention turns back to Ziva, kinder than before. “We take Daisy with us now, acting as temporary guardians until we put her into emergency housing with people qualified to take care of children with special needs. I heard you were in the hospital with her – is there anything significantly wrong that needs long-term addressment?”

“She…she is underweight, even for a child with her condition,” says Ziva, hesitant. She hugs Daisy to her, holding her close. Daisy snuggles closer, far from upset anymore. A pained look flashes across her face as she watches her, partly from loss, partly from the pressure in her abdomen. “She is on a feeding tube. There is a supply of…supplies, here,” Ziva gestures to the bag on her desk.

“Okay,” Beckett nods, taking the bag and handing it over to Carson. “Anything else?”

“They wanted to keep her longer, to get a baseline of her development, but I was to bring her here, instead,” finishes Ziva.

“Okay,” Beckett repeats, using the corner of Ziva’s desk to open her briefcase. “I’ll just go over the paperwork with Agent Gibbs and give you a couple of minutes to say goodbye.”

Swallowing roughly, Ziva gives a jerky nod, adjusting her hold on Daisy so she can look at her. Knowing she is thoroughly enamoured with the child, Ziva tries to commit her face to memory. It would be a bad idea to take a photo, she knows – but she might as well hold onto her recollections, when her current partner is seemingly against having children belonging to them both. It may be years before Ziva sees the face of a child she wants as dearly as she does now.

“ _Leitraot, ahuvi,_ ” says Ziva. _Goodbye, my beloved._ Kissing her forehead, Ziva whispers it again into her ear, kissing her cheek. Beckett takes her from her slowly and Ziva watches her begin squirming again.

“Oh, you’re a whiner,” Beckett says fondly. Carson takes her shortly, strapping her into the car-seat. “Frank, why don’t you take her on ahead, get her in the Audi and calm her down with some music?”

“Do you think she’ll prefer Barney or Tchaikovsky?” Carson asks, as if there isn’t a crying toddler in his grasp. Ziva itches to snatch her away, but Carson waves, moving onwards. Ziva moves to clutch the orange divider, eyes glued to Daisy’s crying form. Within thirty seconds, she – and her crying – have disappeared and Ziva feels like the world has dropped out from under her feet.

“It’s hard,” says Beckett. “But she’s going to someone who can take care of her.”

Tony clears his throat. “Hey, Louisa,” he starts, sitting back in his seat, leading an invisible orchestra with his pen. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Depends on the question,” Beckett says, “And it’s Mrs Beckett, Agent…”

“Dinozzo. Tony Dinozzo.” Tony flashes a winning smile. “So, hypothetically, if my crazy ninja girlfriend wanted to adopt, say…a kid with Down Syndrome. A specific kid with Down Syndrome, to be exact, called Daisy Chen-” Ziva closes her eyes, unsure as to whether to smile or not at his support “-when could she take the kid home? How long are the proceedings to adoption?”

“Adoption licenses take from a year to three years to be approved, but you can be granted temporary custody from as early as the home inspection and background checks allows.”

“And if my crazy girlfriend wasn’t married and hadn’t got her citizenship in this country yet?”

Ziva catches how Beckett glances her way. “Oh. Well…no, unless she had her Green Card and had already gained their permanent residency, she couldn’t adopt. Even if she was married to you or another a US citizen for two years prior to application, she still would have to have her permanent residency first.”

“Well, what about-”

“It’s alright, Tony,” Ziva interrupts, dragging her eyes away from the elevator. Everyone on her team and Beckett is staring at her. “And just for the book, I am not Tony’s girlfriend.”

“Just for the record,” Tony corrects her.

Ziva scowls at him. “A record is made in a book. Is why we call it _paperwork_ , Anthony.”

Tony puts up his hands. “Jeez, just trying to help.”

“Your help is unwanted,” she snaps, before leaving the bullpen both to get out of the situation and to go to the bathroom. Warm, Ziva rubs at her forehead, scowling at the moisture sweating out of her skin. She gulps down a whimper and storms into the female heads, swaying slightly as she comes to lean up against the sinks, staring at herself in the mirror.

 _I look awful,_ she thinks, the fluorescent lights making her skin look paler than it is. Her hair is still tied back in a braid, though it needs redone. She feels like shit and Ziva knows she should have stayed in the hospital. _This is taking longer than the last time. Something is not right._

Remembering that there is a shower cubicle at the far end of the room, Ziva makes her way over, dumping her cell and her trousers outside of the three by three squared tile shower. Because of how it is set far back into the wall, Ziva can hide her belongings just by placing them near the shower that she has no intention of turning on just yet.

She needs help – preferably from someone who will keep their mouth shut. Already having ruled out her team, Ziva goes through a list of female colleagues who she trusts to go through her desk in front of her teammates for her overnight supplies and who won’t tell. Unsurprisingly, the list is short. Jenny, perhaps – but then she would be suspect to numerous questions she doesn’t want to answer. But Jenny is also the Director of NCIS, she could hide everything.

 _No, not Jenny,_ Ziva decides, sitting herself down on the cool tile floor. Like most women’s bathrooms, it’s clean and smells like a fresh bleach wash. She closes the shower curtain three quarters of the way, then has an epiphany.

The one who helps her does not have to be female.

* * *

Jimmy Palmer is her friend. He is also scared of her and having an affair with Michelle from Legal. When he enters the bathroom, Michelle is on his tail with Ziva’s bag, looking as if she is recovering from an interrogation.

“How was it?” Ziva croaks, slumped against the cubicle wall. She’d discarded her underwear some time between the phone call and their arrival. Jimmy crouches down, knees on the raised barrier so the water doesn’t leak out into the main lavatory.

“Ziva, what the hell? Is that blood?”

“I don’t want Gibbs to find out.”

“You said on the phone – Michelle faced the firing squad getting your stuff!” Jimmy exclaims, reaching out to turn her chin, fingers on her pulse. His hands aren’t cold, despite the rubber of his gloves, a welcome relief to the Israeli part of her. Jimmy worries, “You’re really warm, Agent David.”

“I’m having a miscarriage, Jimmy. It hurts.”

“You should be in a hospital.”

“I was. I signed out.” Ziva says, admitting, “I should not have done so. I have done this before, and it is not like the last time. Something is not right.”

Behind Jimmy, Michelle watches on with a pale face. She grasps Ziva’s bag with a clenched fist, but when the bathroom door opens with a loud squeal, she turns and barks out an order for them to get out. Surprised by her steel, Ziva smiles.

“Well done, Michelle.”

Shaking, Michelle looks at her with wide eyes. “I just shouted at Karen.”

“Karen would shout at you, in your position,” Ziva replies, before Jimmy turns to Michelle, ordering her.

“Don’t let anyone in. If you get ordered to, say that I’m attending to a patient.”

“Doctor-patient privilege,” Michelle says, nodding. “What about Agent Gibbs? And the Director? How long do you think we have until they come storming in?”

“As long as you give us,” says Ziva, knowing the personalities of her colleagues. She reaches up past Jimmy to take her hand, squeezing. “Be confident. Do not let them in. If anyone tries to guilt you with Ducky, tell them that I do not trust him not to tell Gibbs and I do not want him or anyone else to know.”

“And if they actually do just want to help and don’t mind not knowing, have them bring first aid supplies, juice and two towels.”

Ziva glances at him. “Towels?”

Jimmy meets her eyes, adjusting his glasses. “Do you know how far along you are?”

“Fourteen weeks, according to the doctor from yesterday evening.”

“Then you will want a towel to wrap it in,” he says, like he isn’t telling her there will be a tiny body at the end of this. Ziva breathes in sharply, copied by Michelle, who drops Ziva’s bag between Jimmy and the wall a moment later as the door opens again.

Listening to Michelle tell someone to use the other bathroom, Ziva lets her eyes drop to the stream of blood on the shower floor, all going down the drain.

“How long have you been bleeding?”

“All night.”

“Okay,” Jimmy murmurs. “There are only two small clots here and membrane. Not so bad, I think – but if this goes on for longer than an hour or it gets worse, then I’m going to call the paramedics, Z.”

“No, no paramedics-”

“ _Yes,_ paramedics,” Jimmy snaps, clearly serious. “You’re losing lots of blood here, Ziva. How are you feeling? Tell me everything.”

Breathing in slowly, Ziva tells him, “I am in acute pain. I am cold. I was warm and sweating, before.”

“Okay, not so good,” Jimmy says, opening her bag and taking out her spare shirt. “Put this on. Normally, you’d be in an overly-warm room, but instead, you are bleeding in a bathroom like an idiot.”

“Am not an idiot,” Ziva snaps.

“Could have fooled me,” Jimmy replies in a cool tone, before tapping her raised knees. “Let me have a look.”

Silent, Ziva shifts, letting him see. Jimmy doesn’t touch and both look up when they hear the start of an argument from the doorway.

“ _You can’t come in._ ”

“ _Why? Who’s in there that can’t be disturbed, Lee?_ ”

“ _No-one who wants to see you._ ”

Jimmy and Ziva exchange a look.

Gibbs snaps at her, loudly. “ _Who the hell needs Palmer in there? Ducky said he got a phone-call and left._ ”

“ _That’s protected information, Agent Gibbs. Unless they want to disclose their identity, doctor-patient privilege invites me to tell you to piss off!_ ”

Another smile tugs at Ziva’s lips. “Go Michelle,” she whispers, getting a grin from Jimmy before a spike of pain has her gasping.

The door slams against the wall, held there by Gibbs, if Ziva isn’t mistaken. “ _Do you want to get fired, Lee?_ ”

“ _I want to do my job, Agent Gibbs. So – back off. This doesn’t concern you._ ”

She hears a faint growl, before the footsteps fading away, the door closing. Michelle lets out a manic laugh.

“I just told Agent Gibbs to piss off!”

Ziva wants to tell Michelle thank-you, but she feels that strange urge to tense up again and ignores it. Jimmy straightens abruptly.

“What was that? What did you do?”

“What?” Ziva mutters.

Jimmy stares at her, then mutters a curse, moving. Ziva is alarmed when he steps into the cubicle with her, sitting opposite her. His shoes get blood on them and then his scrubs as he settles in front of her, feet by her sides against the shower wall.

“Ziva,” he says, looking her in the eyes, “you need to push it out, like any other labour. You’ve been resisting. That’s why it’s so bad.”

Ziva panics. “No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not alive. I’m not in labour.”

“That’s what this is. I’m sorry, Ziva, but it needs to come out and right now, the only way it’s coming out is through you. Come on.”

“ _No,_ ” Ziva feels tears in her eyes again.

“Yes, come on, Ziva – you going to make me sit in your blood all morning?” He winks and a bubble of laughter escapes her just as a sob works its way up her throat. Jimmy pats her knees and then she tries to push. It surprises her how little it hurts, despite how much more blood there is, all of a sudden. Jimmy moves back to the shower barrier to give her more room, letting her hold his hand.

By the time she feels something big pass, Ziva is crying. She prays in Hebrew, asking God for her baby’s spirit to rest well. Someone at the door gets Michelle arguing again and Ziva doesn’t want it, doesn’t want the anger or the interruption. Jimmy kisses her forehead – _it should be Gibbs,_ she reminds herself, hurt at her own idea because he _doesn’t want kids_ – before reaching up for the detachable shower-head. He turns on the water to a gentle spray, letting it wash away the excess blood before helping her undress fully, mumbling something about how she’s passed a placenta. He doesn’t seem to know if that’s good or not.

Ziva feels numb. A voice penetrates – Jenny. Focusing on her argument with Michelle, Ziva hears her annoyance and hates it. She hates everything.

“Tell her to go away, Palmer,” Ziva says in a low, dangerous voice. Jimmy pauses in folding her clothes, hands miraculously free of blood so far. He slowly nods, standing and moving into view of the doorway. From the shower to the door is a right-angled corner, so he doesn’t need to move out of her sight.

“Director Shepard,” he raises his voice, the argument ceasing. Ziva watches him stand there, blood streaking his greens bright red. “Please block off this bathroom for use for the next few hours. My patient will need transferred to the hospital in the next hour or two, but until then, they have no intention of being identified – by their colleagues or their boss.”

“ _…Doctor Palmer, I must insist on knowing who is in there with you._ ”

“Agent Lee, for one. My patient, the second. My patient, who’s identity will remain undisclosed until their transfer to their preferred hospital.

“ _Why not Bethesda?_ ”

“I haven’t asked which hospital they want. It could be Bethesda. I have no idea and I won’t until I ask. If you’ll excuse me, Director – Agent Lee, please shut the door.”

“ _Yes, Doctor Palmer_.”

The door shuts and Ziva looks down past her naked skin to the tiny body covered in blood. With shaking hands, she takes the showerhead and washes it, hearing Jimmy’s aborted start to a sentence. He crouches down beside her in silent solidarity. Michelle joins them a moment later, murmuring _oh Ziva…_

“I want to put them in a towel now, please.” Her voice is cracking. She’s scared to touch it.

“I’ll steal McGee’s gym bag. He usually goes before lunch,” Michelle says, disappearing. Jimmy watches her go, hesitant.

“I have to guard the door, until she comes back. Are you going to be okay here?”

Ziva nods, mute. When he disappears past the ninety-degree angle of the corner, she pulls her strength together and picks her baby up. It’s small in the palm of her hand, barely three inches tall. Ziva stands, feeling more blood run down her legs. She sets the shower to right, always one hundred percent aware of the baby in her grasp. Only when she’s standing beneath the lukewarm drizzle does she hear the door open abruptly, Jimmy shouting Gibbs’ name.

Mere seconds later, he’s standing in front of her.


	3. Chapter 3

For a short time, Ziva wonders if he’s angry. McGee’s monogrammed towels are in his grasp, though a few moments later, they drop to the floor beside her belongings. Gibbs stares at the blood still dripping down her legs, staining her skin and swirling like paint down the drain.

“You need to _leave_ ,” Jimmy hisses from behind him, furious.

Gibbs turns, looming over him and Ziva is a statue as he presses Jimmy to the wall, hissing, “That’s _my_ baby, too, Palmer. You go watch the door and if I see anyone other than yourself or Agent Lee in here, it’s on your head.”

“You aren’t my patient. Let me go.”

“Let him go,” Ziva echoes, attracting his attention. “Jimmy, let him stay. It’s alright.” Jimmy looks over Gibbs’ shoulder at her, worry in his gaze. “I’m- I’m not fine. I’d like him here, please.”

“…alright,” Jimmy says. Gibbs slowly lets him loose and Jimmy tries to step around him to get to Ziva, but Gibbs doesn’t let him. Jimmy purses his lips, seemingly deciding to ignore him as he speaks to Ziva. “If you feel faint from blood-loss, sit down. I’m going to talk to the ambulance service, to get you booked in. If you start bleeding any worse, you call me back _immediately_ , Ziva. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“You’ve said,” she croaks. Jimmy waits until she nods at him to go before disappearing. Ziva leans sideways against the wall, watching Gibbs as he slowly turns back around.

“Hell, Ziva…I’m…I’m-”

“Don’t apologise,” Ziva starts, struggling to smile, trying to keep things from turning sour. This is hard enough. “It’s a rule.”

Her efforts don’t seem to work. Gibbs snorts derisively, “Damn her rules.” It makes no sense to Ziva, whose distress mounts as he takes off his clothes. He joins her in the shower, reaching for her head. He presses a hard kiss to her hairline. “Thought something was wrong. Thought you were just distracted by Daisy.”

“I was. It didn’t mean something else wasn’t wrong, too.”

Gibbs acts like he’s handing a flower when he reaches between them. For a moment, Ziva resists. It seems wrong to show him.

“Ziva,” he mutters, almost pleading.

“You said-”

“Damn it, Ziva, I had no idea you were pregnant,” Gibbs still cradles her head in one of his hands, the left. The right rests over the two hiding the body against her chest. Everything feels so _wrong._ Ziva sobs.

“Neither did I! Everything hurt and I couldn’t- I couldn’t stay with her, I left Daisy alone because my own _body_ couldn’t hold a child.”

Her will crumbles, swooping lower and lower. Gibbs catches it, arm wrapping around her, lips brushing her head again.

“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m not ready to choose. I should have said _that_. I’m not ready to _choose_ to have a kid again. Daisy wasn’t in danger, either – you saw to that.”

“Articulation,” Ziva says, pronouncing each syllable as clearly as she can. A rumble reverberates through Gibbs’ chest before he kisses her properly. Ziva tastes the salt of her own tears and when they part, she shows him the baby.

It is recognisable as a baby. With a bulbous head, it has opaque skin and dark circles where eyes might have been, along with arms, legs, and fingers. Ziva did not think something so small might have fingers.

“Gonna bury her?” Gibbs asks.

Ziva swallows. “Her?” She does not want to think about a burial.

“All babies are girls up until nine weeks,” he pronounces, as if he were quoting someone. His voice is deceptively light. “Could bury her with a tree. People do that.”

Part of her likes the idea, but she has a bone to pick. “I was fourteen weeks along, Gibbs,” Ziva murmurs, jesting slightly. “What if they were male, hmm?”

“We won’t know,” Gibbs states simply, “but we can still pretend. Our girl. Our boy. Whatever. Still special to the both of us.”

Heart pounding, Ziva asks, “Really?”

“Really.”

Absorbing his answer, Ziva holds the baby close to her again, kissing his jaw. Gibbs kisses her in return, then backs away, introducing a cool breeze. She shivers, watching him twist and turn, picking up the smaller of towels.

“No,” she refuses. “Gibbs-”

Gibbs just stares at her. Ziva’s eyes burn and she blinks, nodding. _It is silly to think I can hold it forever._ She watches him unfold the towel and then fold it once over, again. Ziva places their baby in the centre, then looks at Gibbs.

He, like her, doesn’t want them to disappear. He cradles it for a long moment, then gently folds the edges of the towel over to hide them away, placing them down on top of her things. Ziva doesn’t know when her gaze slipped from Gibbs to the towel, but it only moves when Gibbs steps in front of her, turning her away.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he crouches down, already brushing at the red on her thighs.

“How can you stand it?” Ziva asks quietly. She doesn’t want to touch herself, not for anything, though she’ll let her partner do this.

“Happened to Shannon, once. Was practically catatonic. Second and third times, I was deployed and she dealt better, but it was worse the first time. She panicked, thought she’d done it to herself. I talked her through it.” Gibbs shrugs, glancing up at her. “Would you rather I left you alone?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

* * *

Embarrassment only comes when she leaves the bathroom finally. Heads pop up from the office bullpen across both segments as the paramedics walk her out and Tim blinks in alarm at the sight of his bloodied towel folded up in Gibbs’ arms, inside his jacket.

“Ziva?” Jenny says in astonishment, confusion obvious. Ziva looks away, Gibbs covering her as they make their way to the elevator.

“You really should sit down,” one of the paramedics says, Jenny pouncing.

“What’s wrong with her?”

Gibbs barks, “None of your business, Jen.”

“It happened in _my_ building, Jethro.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Jenny,” Ziva interrupts, before things go further. Gibbs doesn’t say anything else, arm wrapping around her shoulders, but Ziva catches how Jenny’s eyes drag across the bundle he holds. She stares as they get into the elevator and her embarrassment is enough that Ziva seriously considers going rogue, so to escape both her friend’s – and her father’s – inquisition.

Six hours later, she’s released and Gibbs, who had driven in his own vehicle, takes her back to his place. He leads her to the backyard and with startled surprise, Ziva watches him gestures around.

“Where?”

“Where-” Ziva grapples for some sense. The bundle is still in his arms. “Oh. You- Gibbs. You are grieving, too.”

“Yeah, I am,” he mutters, “and I want a place to think about, rather than you all covered in blood in the shower at NCIS.”

Stung by his comment, Ziva points at an overgrown corner of the garden, by a hedge and a raised plateau. Gibbs immediately stalks over, testing the brickwork of the plateau and stomping over the grass and weeds.

“Flowers might work better. Or a small tree.”

“Or a plaque,” Ziva says, feeling morbid. “Date of death, September eighteenth, two thousand and seven. Gibbs-David.”

Gibbs doesn’t reply, giving her the bundle before disappearing into a shed Ziva hadn’t even realised was there, hidden by greenery as it is. He reappears with a shovel, digging a large hole as Ziva cradles the child in cloth. Only when he stops to pull something out of the ground, frowning, does Ziva wonder if something is wrong.

“Gibbs?”

What looks like one of Tony’s special lunchboxes gets flipped over and opened by dirt-strewn hands. Ziva cranes her neck, unsure if she should join him. He drops to the edge of his hole, feet inside it as he starts looking through the box, answering her question.

Making her way over, Ziva sits on the edge of the plateau, giving him the chance to tell her what is going on. He seems hypnotised.

“…is everything alright, Gibbs?”

He grunts, not answering. Ziva looks at the hole, hardly deep enough for a body or the roots of a tree. Ruffled by his behaviour, she hopes the box is worth it.

After five minutes of the outdoors, doing nothing but sit while Gibbs goes through the box, he takes some sort of ragdoll out, passing it to her.

“Kelly,” he says, as if it explains everything. She takes the doll, curious, watching him pack the box away and set it to the side. _This was hers,_ she thinks, _so the box must have been, too. She buried it and now, Gibbs has found it._

“Will we place them together?” Ziva questions, gracious enough to allow it. Gibbs did not just have one child who died, after all. At her query, he jerks his head in a nod, digging again. At one point, he throws some dirt at her and she laughs, the little levity raising the mood.

Ziva looks back at the doll, kissing it in thanks. She prays for Kelly’s memory, hoping the little girl and her mother lived happy lives, before their untimely deaths. Perhaps Gibbs will share his memories one day, though Ziva would be content only knowing what she does.

They bury their child, taking one last look only to tuck in the ragdoll which Gibbs calls _strawberry shortcake_. A Tony-like urge comes in the form of wanting to ask if they should plant a strawberry bush on top, but it is out of place.

Mulling on her relationship with Gibbs instead, Ziva decides that today should be the day they talk – properly talk.

“We need to talk about our future – our future as a couple.”

Gibbs sits down beside her on the plateau. “Okay. Talk.”

“Bring up your own misgivings and hopes as well, if you would,” Ziva cautions him, not wanting to be the only one talking. When he nods, Ziva returns it and straightens her coat. “I will eventually be reassigned from the liaison post for Mossad. My skillset is more valuable in Israel than here, though I want to stay in America, for reasons other than our relationship. I like my life here.”

“Quickest way to get a Green Card is through marriage,” he says, like it isn’t something she knows, but refuses to ponder.

“That is true, but we have not even been properly dating. That is Plan C, not Plan A.” She sees a smile stretch across his face.

“Plan C? That low on the list?” His knee shifts closer, resting against hers. “We’re closer than Plan C, Ziva.”

“Then where would you rank it?” Ziva asks him, testing the waters. He shrugs, smile fading somewhat.

“Plan B,” he replies eventually. Ziva nods. “But Eli David might stop Plan A: simply applying direct. So…”

“So…” Ziva tilts her head, narrowing her eyes as her apprehension grows, bubbling and joyful.

“So, we do this backwards,” he says. He motions to the grave. “Already had the baby. Getting married is next, long engagement next and have a second ceremony with friends when you’ve got your citizenship. Bow-tie on a relationship.”

“Confusing. I like it. To be clear, however,” Ziva pauses, sidling closer, “if we do not decide to continue our relationship later, the second ceremony is not another marriage. I do not want to trap you in a relationship for the sake of my Green Card.”

“Or Daisy,” he murmurs, really confusing her, now.

“Daisy?”

“Yeah. Just ‘cause you can’t adopt her, doesn’t mean I can’t.” He raises an eyebrow. “That alright?”

Ziva stares at him.

“Ziva?”

He makes a strange _oomph_ sound when she climbs onto his lap, pressing a kiss to his lips. Ziva wants to show him all the appreciation she feels for him making this decision, though she isn’t well enough for the part that usually includes sex. Kissing will have to do.

“ _Ani ohev otkha, Gibbs_ ,” she murmurs against his lips, knowing he doesn’t speak Hebrew. Ziva doesn’t dare speak it in Arabic, knowing his passing familiarity, or Russian, French or any other language she knows. It is something secret, yet honest and true.

Her partner doesn’t answer her _I love you,_ the wordless guardian of her love, which suits her just fine. His arms wrap around her and they kiss slowly. Eventually, Ziva shifts into his hold and rests her head against his shoulder, kissing his collarbone through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“…Ziva?” Gibbs drawls after a while. “You know I speak Hebrew, right?”

“…what.” Ziva sits up, meeting his eyes. _Oh. Oh no._ “You speak Hebrew?”

“Yep.”

She narrows her eyes. “Then what did I say.”

Gibbs leans in, lips close to hers. “Something about loving little old me. _Ani ohev otkha, Ziva David._ Marry me at a courthouse next week. We’ll bring our best friends along for the ride.”

“Jimmy and Ducky?” Ziva clarifies, briefly feeling a smidgeon of guilt for not saying Tony, instead. He is one of her best friends, who knows her the best. Just, sometimes…sometimes, she does not trust him. The situation with Jeanne being first and foremost.

“Duckster and Gremlin,” Gibbs confirms, making her snort with laughter, grinning.

“I am telling him you called him that. He will not believe me, but it will be funny, all the same.”

“Is that a yes to my proposal, Officer David?”

“Of course,” Ziva replies instantly, kissing him carefully, gently. She sees the plot beside them, freshly overturned earth sparking an idea in her mind again. “I do want a plaque for the garden, though. With both September and February on it.”

Gibbs sighs.

“Am I ruining the mood?” Ziva asks, not expecting an answer. “Your loved ones are important. If…if you are still agreeable to adopting Daisy, should we be allowed,” she adds, scared they won’t be, “then I would not hide them from her. I would have their pictures on a wall where she could see them and know they were family.”

“They,” he says, breath ragged, “Shannon, too? She’s not going to be Daisy’s mom.”

“No, but you will be a father again. Shannon loved you, did she not? She would want you to be happy, Gibbs. Did Kelly ever want siblings?”

Gibbs mulls over her words, reluctantly saying, “She wanted a brother. Asked me twice for Christmas, where her mom couldn’t hear. I think they’d talked before about it.”

 _Minefield,_ Ziva thinks, wondering where next she should tread or if she should retreat. _Maybe,_ she eventually thinks, somewhat sarcastically, _I should just ask._

“Do you want a new conversation to begin, Gibbs?”

He presses his thumbs into her hips, tracing her pelvic bone. Slow answers, at times, can be quite the feat of patience, Ziva realises, while her _impatience_ mounts. It has been a hard day.

“You organise the plaque.” Gibbs states, “I’ll phone Louisa Beckett and ask where to begin with Daisy.” He kisses her once more, before lifting her up onto her feet. Ziva allows the man-handling, as when he stands up, he kisses her like he means it and looks her in the eyes when he says, “I love you, too.”

* * *

The end of the Chen case leads to paperwork, of course. They track down Belle Dearing’s plans – kept safe in her ex-husband’s apartment – and discover the abducted boy, Phillip Sokolov, in the care of the senile next-door neighbour. She’d heard him crying and apparently decided he was her grandson, visiting from California – forgetting, in her senility, that her only grandson is twenty-five – and had broken into Arnold Cane’s apartment to retrieve him.

People walk on tiptoes around Ziva. Not even Tony dares ask what went on, though Ziva catches Tim working up the nerve at least twice before she stares him into submission. One upside to all the dreary business is Michelle, who invites Ziva out to coffee on Friday.

It is an interesting outing, watching her tuck a USB stick into a newspaper between coffee and Danishes.

“This is why you told me to leave my gun and badge in the car,” Ziva observes, redoing her braid, “and let my hair out.”

“I have no idea who is watching me,” says Michelle, legs curled up beneath her. Her pastry is long-gone from stress. “They have a member of my family captive.”

“Who? Mother? Father? Sibling?”

Michelle winces. “Sister, but I raised her. My daughter, really. I’ve called her that for years. My sister genuinely thought she was an aunt for about six years, until I had to correct her for legal purposes. They’ve only had her for two weeks.”

“Two weeks is a long time, to a child,” says Ziva, scanning the surrounding area. The newspaper on their table by the window is gone. “Why not come to NCIS about the kidnapping?”

“Uh, they threatened to _kill_ her, Ziva,” Michelle raises an eyebrow at her. “Do you think I’m going to risk that, if they have eyes in NCIS?”

Ziva shifts to face her, brow furrowed. “Then why me? I am the Mossad liaison, one of the most dangerous assets to the MCRT. Being with me is like…a white flag!”

“Red flag,” Michelle corrects, before answering, “Because if anyone asks what we’re doing sneaking around, I can just say we’re dating and no-one will dare ask you.”

Ziva’s eyes widen and she laughs, putting a hand to her mouth. “ _No._ ”

“Yes,” Michelle grins.

“Alright,” Ziva says, reaching forwards and pressing her lips to the corner of Michelle’s in a pose for watchers. “How’s your relationship with Jimmy, by the way?”

“Lively, to say the least,” Michelle replies, not at all fazed by her closeness. Ziva suspects Michelle thought this through – not unexpected, considering her status as a lawyer. “I want to adopt her properly, after this. As my daughter and not just my sister. I’ve been looking after her since our parents died and I want recognition for that. I was nineteen, saddled with a two year old. I love her, but I worked hard to keep her and our other sister in my care. She’s mine, Ziva, _mine_.”

“I wish you good luck,” Ziva says softly, thinking of Daisy Chen. “Michelle, you know what happened to me on Tuesday.”

Michelle’s large brown eyes go wide. “Yes. Why are we talking about that? Are you okay?”

“Gibbs is- we-” Ziva swallows, wincing. “Gibbs and I are together. We are getting married next Friday in a courthouse, so I might apply for my Green Card. He is also working on adopting Daisy, the little girl I rescued from Belle Dearing.”

“Holy shit, _what?_ ” Michelle questions her, enraptured. Ziva finds herself flushing, an embarrassed smile growing on her face before she gets to her point.

“I will follow the man you drop to and I will follow the trail from there. I only ask your permission to bring Gibbs into this, as my backup. Hopefully, this can be done before the wedding, as I would like to invite you there – though only Jimmy and Ducky are supposed to be coming.”

“If you get Amanda back before then, do you think he’d like it if she came?” Michelle asks, wistful. Ziva kisses both her cheeks, behaving as touchy-feely as her aunt Nettie.

“Very much so. Tell me: how often are your drops?”

Upon returning to NCIS, she takes Gibbs aside, explaining Michelle’s situation. He grumbles, probably over how long it took for Michelle to go to someone for help, but agrees to assist.

“Off-books,” Ziva then reminds him. Gibbs pauses, narrowing her eyes. “You are _my_ back-up, Gibbs.”

“What about the team?”

“Too many hazards. Michelle trusts me, because I trusted her,” says Ziva, referring to her time blocking the NCIS female heads. Gibbs jerks his head in understanding. Michelle might sabotage them, if there are too many players getting her hackles up over Amanda.

“Okay.”

Ziva breathes in. “Okay.”

Nodding to her, Gibbs disappears into the bullpen, sending the guys home for the week – Michelle had timed their coffee run well, in the afternoon pick-me-up time period. With no case, only boredom prevailed in the office. Tim had already thrown enough of Tony’s paper balls back at him. Michelle is invited to _Casa Gibbs_ and in the skeleton of a boat, they make their plans.

When the woman goes for coffee next Monday, Ziva and Gibbs are there, dogging her tail. Michelle with a wire tells them of the man in the hat as she passes him on the way out and on the wrong end of the street, Ziva gets into her car instead. Michelle returns to the Navy Yard, meant to tell Tony and Tim just exactly what their co-workers were doing before disappearing if they don’t call her by noon.

The man removes his hat and scarf two blocks down, slipping into a side-alley. Gibbs follows on foot, directing Ziva in the car. He doesn’t join her, not until the man calls for a taxi. Once Gibbs has slipped into the passenger seat, Ziva asks him what he looks like.

“Average. Not military, that’s for sure.”

The taxi leads them to a subway. Gibbs removes his jacket and wire and goes down, phone in hand. When he gets on the same train, he tells Ziva where to go. Three stops later, Gibbs calls her to say he’s been made.

“ _Coming your way._ ”

“I will follow discretely,” Ziva replies, watching him exit out the subway and call another taxi, looking harried. Luckily for Ziva, it seems he only noticed Gibbs, because by the time he gets to his destination – three different taxis and fourteen blocks of various walking speeds – Ziva is still unnoticed. Which is strange, though perhaps Ziva’s popular choice of car is putting him off.

Texting the address of the home he enters an hour later, Ziva is surprised to receive a call from Abby.

“ _Hey, Ziva! Gibbs got me on the case and it’s really funny, but there’s an FBI safe-house on that street._ ”

Ziva tilts her head, stating the apartment building’s address.

“ _Yep, that one._ ”

“The FBI does not steal little girls, Abby and they would not allow that in the vicinity of their safe-house,” says Ziva, before getting out of the car. “I am approaching the premises.”

“ _Gibbs and Tony are on the way. Timmy is on Lee-watch._ ”

“Understood.”

Using Tony’s old ‘call the neighbour’ trick gets her in the building, a badge getting her silent directions to the correct floor. Ziva approaches, gun out, not expecting the door to open. Out of apartment steps the man who picked up Michelle’s bogus information, anger clearly written across his face. When he sees Ziva, he still.

Ziva calls out. “NCIS – put your hands behind your head!”

“What are you doing here?” he exclaims, panicked. “What has she done?

“Put your hands behind your head!” Ziva orders, watching him finally do as he’s told. “Now, you will tell me where you have Amanda Lee.”

“I don’t have her – I don’t even know who that is!”

 _Why do I not believe you?_ Ziva steps forwards, getting him to turn around. She puts him in handcuffs, pushing him into the apartment. Inside are computer banks and upon seeing the apartment’s tricky layout, Ziva makes the decision to remove the man from his home territory, remanding him back onto the landing.

“He has my wife,” the man says, but Ziva hisses for him to quiet. When her team finally arrives, it is with Tony’s usual quips.

“And look who we have here: not-dead Tracy.” Tony raises an eyebrow as no-one laughs, putting his gun away after Gibbs does. “Tracy? The blackmailer from _Blackmail_ , nineteen twenty-nine? Alfred Hitchcock? Come on. I mean, it’s not perfect because our guy here didn’t fall through a skylight, die and take the blame for a murder-”

“Dinozzo, shut up,” Gibbs drawls, taking custody of their prisoner. Ziva nods to him.

“He claims not to know who or where Amanda Lee is. He also claims that his wife has been taken. There are large computers within the apartment.”

Gibbs glances at the number on the door. “That’s the FBI safe-house, but this guy ain’t the one supposed to be there. You’re coming with us – Dinozzo, stay here with David until McGee gets here.”

“Cyber-crimes may need to be brought in,” Ziva interjects. “They are large, _large_ computers.”

The man sighs in a defeated manner. “They’re not just computers. Learn some IT, lady.”

“Hey,” Gibbs barks, looking him in the eye. “Are you trying to tell the assassin to learn some computer skills? She doesn’t need an internet connection to kick your ass!”

“Nice compliment there, boss,” Tony remarks, grinning at Ziva. She rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten our lovely conversation about your love-life, Officer David.”

Gibbs looks between the two of them. “Jeez, does Dinozzo have to come, too? You already invited Lee.”

“And Amanda, if we find her in time,” Ziva says, before Gibbs rolls his eyes and starts hauling their guy away. Tony looks between them in confusion as they disappear downstairs.

“Wait, invited to what? Don’t tell me I’m missing another team dinner. You’re inviting Lee and not _me?_ ”

Ziva smiles to herself, leading him into the apartment. Inwardly, she’s touched Gibbs is mentioning their upcoming nuptials so casually. She wonders if he’s told Ducky.

Tony goes _wow_ at the computers, but he’s beaten out by Tim’s short, genuinely impressed _woah_ when he arrives with half the cyber-crimes unit, as recommended. Tony and Ziva end up standing off to the side as he and his buddies work at the various screens, quickly discovering the true purpose as to the person-sized computer banks.

“He created his own internet hub using sequentially-linked network racks,” explains Tim, explaining nothing. “Looks like he was still in the process of building up whatever monopoly he was trying to build, but he’d figured out a decent-enough system.”

“What about Amanda, Tim?” Ziva presses.

“Uh, guys?” Tim glances at the team, “Anything on a girl? Amanda Lee?”

“I have text messages from a phone linked to the computer,” one of the computer geeks calls out. “Taking a look at things now…seems to be a series of orders sent to a cell number. Take her to a cabin and feed her, stuff like that. Make purchases of toys and books. There’s an address.”

“Give it to us, pronto, mini McGeek,” Tony snaps, close behind Ziva as they approach said ‘mini McGee’. He glances over his shoulder, nervous as he points at the screen. Tony texts Gibbs, phone snapping shut. Ziva is already turning towards the door when Tony orders Tim, “You tidy up here, figure out where the FBI’s missing person went.”

“On it, Tony. Good luck!”

* * *

Reuniting Amanda with Michelle takes less than an hour’s work, once they disarm her guardian. Upon hearing that they traced the girl from the city apartment, he gives up immediately, which will help his case for the kidnapping charge that’ll be surely slapped on him. When Tony shows off his NCIS badge, Amanda acts like an octopus, holding so tightly to him that he claims she must have eight limbs rather than four. Ziva briefly pities her, wondering how long she will hold the trauma of her abduction.

Luckily for Tony, Amanda lets go of him to get in the car and can’t be rid of him faster when they arrive in the bullpen, running to Michelle and calling her _Mishy_. It’s adorable and Ziva sidles up to Gibbs, who loops his arm around her shoulders casually.

Eventually, Michelle turns to Ziva, teary-eyed. “Thank-you.”

“Just doing our jobs, Michelle. We never would have let Amanda go unfound.”

“I know, but…you still got her back for me.”

Tony raises his hand. “I helped,” he claims, getting a giggle from Amanda. He winks at her, before Ziva asks a question, curious as to the answer.

“You never said what it was the blackmailer wanted from you.”

“Oh,” Michelle shrugs, “I’m still not so sure what it was – I only knew the name of the operation. It was above my clearance. Something about troops in the Middle East – ‘Domino’?”

The room shifts. Ziva stares at Michelle, shocked beyond measure. Tony and Gibbs’ reactions are the same. Both have straight backs and hard eyes, each man just _knowing_ , not even having to realise – _knowing_ that they have more than just an unwilling mole among them: they have a potential traitor.

Michelle gets the read of the room, eyes flitting between each of the three members of the MCRT present rapidly.

“What? What’s Domino?”

“A game?” Amanda asks, confused. Gibbs’ arm falls from Ziva shoulders.

“Domino is the military’s contingency plan that specifically details how the US would respond to a terrorist attack on a target of interest in Israel or the Middle East. Top secret.” Gibbs stresses, crooking his finger at her. “Director’s office. Now. Leave the kid.”

“I’m not leaving her-”

“ _Now._ ” Gibbs barks, leaving the bullpen. Michelle doesn’t immediately follow, still holding onto Amanda. Ziva crosses her arms, looking at Michelle seriously.

“We will look after her, but you need to go, now. You know your rights – remember them. Whatever you handed over will be discovered by cyber-crimes, so do not leave anything out,” she warns. Michelle swallows, nodding. Ziva watches as she lets go of Amanda, kneeling in front of her and speaking to her quietly. Above on the stairwell, Gibbs waits until they’ve hugged before barking her name.

“You can sit at my desk,” Ziva tells Amanda, setting her up with a long-abandoned set of coloured pencils from the back of her drawer. They are not hers and they never were – but Ziva does not think Kate would mind.

“What about you? Where will you sit?” asks Amanda, eyebrows knitting together.

“I will sit on Gibbs’ seat,” Ziva smiles.

“Won’t he mind?”

Ziva smiles secretively. “Let me tell you a secret,” she says, leaning up from her crouching position to Amanda’s ear. For a moment, she is silent, but then Ziva tells Amanda, “You are coming to our wedding this Friday. If he does not like me sitting at his desk, he might want to reconsider becoming my husband.”

As expected, Amanda giggles at Ziva’s comment and Tony, intrigued, makes his way over to Ziva’s desk, leaning against the corner as he asks.

“What are you ladies laughing about?”

“Your hair,” Ziva says blandly, getting another laugh from the young girl. It abruptly reminds her of another young girl, one whom she had forgotten about until now. _How is Daisy? Is she alright? Is she happy? How is the paperwork going, to give her to us?_

Tony, like whenever his features are mentioned, vainly attempt to blindly correct any perceived faults, grimacing. “I don’t believe you, so I will try again – Ziva David!”

“Yes, Anthony?”

Tony stares at her, wriggling his eyebrows in a perturbed manner. “Don’t call me Anthony. I feel like I’m being told off by my mother.”

“If your father in this imaginary world is Gibbs, then keep on feeling that way, Tony.”

“Gibbs! My father-figure, _hah,_ ” Tony chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair. He looks at Amanda, sounding as if he is reassuring himself as he says, “He’s not my father. My father is Anthony Dinozzo Senior and yes, my father is as bad as that name sounds.”

Ziva faux-pouts, “Tony, you’ll hurt Gibbs’ feelings.”

“If he _has_ feelings.”

Amanda giggles, questioning him. “Are you going to the wedding, too?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “I have not heard of any wedding. What wedding are you going to? Ziva?”

“I am going to the wedding, Tony. So are several people in NCIS,” Ziva tells him, feeling somewhat naughty; Tony has no idea that it’s her own wedding, after all. Amanda giggles loudly again, having worked out that Tony has no clue.

Tony stares off into the distance as Ziva stands up straight. “Who is getting married?” he asks himself, confused. Ziva watches him drift back across to his own desk, glancing back at her. “Karen?”

“No. Not Karen.”

“Damn…it’s not McGeek, is it? He would have told me if he had a girlfriend, right? I’m not _that_ disliked, am I?”

Ziva shakes her head. “I’m sure you’ll get an invite, just like the rest of us.”

“…Probie got an invite and not me?”

Rolling her eyes, Ziva sighs. “I’m sure if they want you there, you’ll be invited for the big event, Tony.”

Collecting the appropriate paperwork for the day’s work and leaving Amanda to her drawing, Ziva goes to sit at Gibbs’ desk, beginning the boring part of her work. Her mind drifts occasionally, wondering about Daisy – Louisa Beckett had told Gibbs she’d put some things in motion and would call back Thursday – and planning a shopping trip to buy a white dress. She’d been busy during the weekend, helping Gibbs install the cement base for the plaque in his backyard and keeping Jimmy from being too enthusiastic about buying a suit.

Michelle eventually returns, having gotten the green light to continue working at NCIS. She takes Amanda home just as Tim walks into the office, Gibbs motioning to the two men. Exchanging a glance, they huddle by Gibbs’ desk, watching closely as he raises an eyebrow at Ziva.

“Is your name Agent Gibbs?” Gibbs asks, sarcasm clear. Ziva hums.

“Give me…a…moment…” she finishes the last line of her report, folding it up and slipping it into his in-tray, standing, only for him to push her back down by her shoulder. She blinks rapidly as he faces the team as a whole, swaying slightly.

“You should all be at the local courthouse as eleven forty-five, Friday morning. I got you all the day off, barring a case. If there is a case, Tony’s in charge and Ziva still has the day off.”

“Oh my god, you’re the one getting married,” Tony’s eyes go wide.

“Married?” Tim exclaims.

“Yeah, married, McGee.”

Tony stares harder, somehow. “Oh my god – wait, why did you invite Lee and her kid to your wedding, but not us?”

Gibbs looks at Dinozzo in disgruntled amusement. “Why do you think _I_ invited Lee, Dinozzo? My fiancée has friends, too. You’re on my side of the room. My proverbial in-laws outnumber you. I’d invite Fornell and Emily, if it didn’t mean Diane had to come, too.”

Ziva frowns deeply at his words, counting before replying. “Your side does not outnumber your fiancée’s. You have Ducky and Abby.” When Gibbs fidgets, glancing at her, Ziva’s eyes widen. “You have not invited her, yet. Are you too goose?”

“Chicken,” Tim and Tony chime in at the same time, before realising what they said. Gibbs, luckily, is too busy glaring at Ziva as she lists them off on her fingers.

“Your fiancée’s side of the room has me, Jimmy, Michelle and Amanda. You have Ducky, Abby, Tim and Tony.”

Gibbs purses his lips, eyes darting to and fro, watching for eavesdroppers. “My fiancée’s aunt Natalia is coming, along with an uncle called Benjamin.”

“…I did not know that.” Ziva swallows, eyes wide. “Your fiancée must love you very much. I believed her aunt and uncle were living abroad.”

“Oh, I’m not paying for the flights.”

“Ziva,” Tony interrupts, “how do you know so much about Gibbs’ fiancée?” Ziva glances his way and sees the way his eyes are lit up in wonder. _He knows,_ she realises. _He even spoke to Aunt Nettie._

“Gibbs,” she says, not looking away from her partner, “go take McGee down to Abby’s lab. He will surely be great back-up explaining to Abby why she didn’t need to know you were in a relationship till now.”

“…yeah. Good idea, Ziva. C’mon, McGee.”

“O-okay, boss. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Yeah, tell that to me again when I actually marry her.”

“…do I wear a suit? Or are normal clothes fine, because it’s a courthouse-”

* * *

It is a cowboy-western duel. Except, instead of a distance of twenty paces and a gun, Gibbs’ desk is the only obstacle and Tony is quick to lean in, so his words have more impact.

“You’re shacking up with the boss _and_ becoming wife number five.”

Immediately, she replies with a succinct, “For Green Card purposes.”

“Hmm…” Tony narrows his eyes. “Nah, not enough details. This is love, _clearly_. C’mon, Ziva, you’re not going to tell me you had any idea _what-so-ever_ that your Uncle Benjy and Aunt Nettie were coming to your wedding.”

Ziva lets herself feel the tears, swallowing a generous lump in her throat. “No,” she admits. “That was a surprise. A good surprise. I did not think…” She falls silent, thinking, _I did not think I would have any of my blood-family with me at my wedding._ Tony smiles, distracting her purposefully.

“Hey, if you really want to even out the room, I could walk you up the aisle, if they even have an aisle in courthouses.” Tony frowns then, clearly wanting to know if there’s actually an aisle or not, but Ziva shakes her head.

“It would not even the room. I do not mind, really – you are part of Gibbs’ team. I have only stolen Jimmy.”

“And Agent Lee.”

“She is not part of the MCRT.”

Tony bats back, grinning again. “But neither are Ducky or Abby. You’ve fooled yourself. Congrats, David – or will that be ‘Gibbs’?”

Ziva rolls her eyes. “No, I will remain ‘David’. It is my name. Hyphenation may come eventually, but not for many years, yet.” Standing, she doesn’t expect Tony to offer her his hand when she steps around Gibbs’ desk. Curious, she takes it, not realising this will be a significant moment in their friendship until the interaction is already done.

Lifting her hand to his lips, Tony kisses it, then squeezes with both hands. This is a _moment._ He is serious as he looks in her eyes and says, “Good job, David. Congratulations, really.”

“Thank-you, Tony.” Ziva lets out her inner Aunt Nettie, reaching to hug him briefly, but tightly. When she steps back, she says, “It was just going to be Ducky and Jimmy as our witnesses, at the start. Then we invited everyone. I thought about asking you as the original witness instead for a small while, but a part of me did not trust you because of the lies you and Jenny gave to all of us.”

His eyes flash with hurt. Ziva hurries to finish.

“I should have trusted you. You are my partner. You were being suspicious, yes, but I should have…I should have done something else, other than what I did. You needed support, with a hard case and with falling in love.”

“Ziva-”

“You are my best friend. So is Jimmy, but Jimmy and I do not work together every day. _We_ are partners and I trust you to have my six, Tony. I’m sorry I didn’t have yours – but this Friday is to get legalities over and done with. Gibbs and I will have another wedding when I gain my citizenship. I’d be honoured to have you walk me down the aisle at _that_ ceremony, my friend.”

Tony looks…he looks overwhelmed. His arms wrap around her again, remaining for a while. Ziva closes her eyes, cherishing his embrace, only leaving it when Tony suddenly backs away, raising his voice.

“Just friends, boss. No rule twelve-ing to be seen, here.”

A chuckle. “Good.” Gibbs sits back down at his desk, reaching for a tissue to wipe his face. Ziva giggles at the sight of multiple purple lip-marks on his cheeks. Tim staggers in, looking somehow even more bedraggled than Gibbs, tie having a distinct _grabbed_ appearance.

“Ziva – Abby asked me to tell you that you’re going dress-shopping with her.”

“No,” Ziva replies in good fun, though she means it. At this point, only Tim must be unaware as to whom the bride is other than Abby and maybe, Ducky, if Gibbs wants to surprise him; Ziva will treasure his panicked expression at the thought of telling Abby Scuito she won’t have control over someone else’s fashion choices at an event.

At his desk, Gibbs’ phone rings and he picks up with his usual, _yeah, Gibbs._ A few moments later her hangs up and stands, grabbing his jacket.

“Gear up. Dead body at Quantico.”

Instinct takes over and Ziva grabs for her go-bag, the team a well-oiled machine as Gibbs steam-rolls past, Tony and Ziva right behind him with Tim sprinting to catch up. Then it is on to their crime scene – a dead body inside a supply closet at Quantico.

As expected, security is a nightmare and half the building is on lockdown. Gibbs is dealing with the on-site guards when Ducky and Jimmy arrive, each peering in at the body beside Ziva in the doorway.

“Well, doesn’t this chap seem to have nodded off,” Ducky says, squeezing past the crouch by their cadaver. “I hope this doesn’t put you off, Officer David, especially after last week.”

Frowning lightly at his cold tone, Ziva asks, “Why would I be put off, Ducky?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know – you don’t _trust_ me, apparently,” says Ducky, drawing out a wince from Jimmy. “Mr Palmer, the liver probe please, if you could be bothered with doing your job!”

“Yes, doctor,” Jimmy passes it over, clearly used to the bad treatment. Ziva’s temper boils and she hisses at the _good doctor_ quietly.

“Do not take your temper out on Jimmy, Dr Mallard. I needed a friend as much as a doctor.” She waits until he looks back at her before continuing, leaning forwards so Tony in the corridor, where he stands questioning the staff member who found their body, does not pick up on any of her sharpness. “I lost a baby. I had not thought I would lose your friendship, too.”

Ducky’s eyes widen. “My dear girl…” he slumps slightly, looking between the both of them. “Jim, my apologies for my behaviour of late; and my condolences, Officer David.”

Nodding shortly, Ziva steps back from the cupboard as Gibbs appears, apparently sensing the mood. Ziva doesn’t answer his inquiring gaze, joining Tony silently as he finishes questioning the witness.

“…stay in town.” Tony shuts his notebook, glancing her way as the witness wanders off. “Hey. What’s up? Your face is making a face.”

“My face is not making a face,” she denies.

“It is _totally_ making a face,” Tony wiggles his eyebrows. “What is it? Boyfriend troubles? The Director get wind of Gibbs’ impending nuptials?”

“No,” Ziva scowls at him, lowering her voice. “Ducky was short with me. I told him what happened last week and now…now I am loose. Un… _something._ ”

“Untethered,” Tony finds the right word, shrugging. “So, you told Ducky? You know what that means, right?”

Ziva sighs, asking him, “What does it mean, Tony?”

“It means-” he leans in “-that Gibbs doesn’t tell Ducky everything.” He raises an eyebrow as she absorbs his words, surprised she had not realised.

“Oh,” she murmurs, before hearing Gibbs call out to clear the area. As they turn to do as he says, Tony leans in to ask.

“What _did_ happen last week? McGee was wondering what you did with his towel.”

Crushing guilt. It aches, like the sensations of the week past, but in her chest; now that she has had time to realise what she said to Ducky, it hurts all the worse. Ziva speaks for Tony’s ears only, saying: “I had a miscarriage, Tony.”

“…oh. I suppose McGee won’t be getting his towel back- I mean, _shit._ ” Tony wipes his forehead, stumbling over his words. “Ziva, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t- _shit-_ ”

“It’s fine,” Ziva interrupts him, finding laughter crawling up her throat unexpectedly, echoing oddly in the corridor. “No,” she says in a depreciating manner, still chuckling, “He won’t be getting his towel back.”

Tony looks at her wide pain in his eyes – so emotional, Ziva finds them. Tony’s eyes have always been the true answer to his state of being. Chuffing him with her elbow, she gestures him to move on, stepping forwards to clear the path ahead for Ducky and the cadaver – missing how Gibbs watches them from afar.


	4. Chapter 4

“You tell everyone what happened?” He asks her that evening, tucked up in her apartment. Ziva, going through her wardrobe in preparation for tomorrow, picks her grey shirt and makes a mental note to wear a different set of earrings. He drawls, “‘Cause Ducky is on my case about you.”

“I have explicitly told Jimmy, Michelle, Tony and Ducky,” says Ziva. She glances back at him before picking a pair of jeans. “You figured it out yourself.”

A snort.

“Why do you ask? Do more people than Ducky question my incident?” Ziva lets the question hang, placing the folded items of clothing – and a new set of underwear – on a chair by her door. Gibbs is quiet.

She wonders if Jenny has asked him what happened in the bathroom, if she has figured out whom Ziva’s mystery lover is. Back in July, the two of them went out together for lunchtime mojitos, only three months into the start of her relationship with Gibbs; Jen had asked what gave her the bruise on her hip with a sly wink that Ziva had playfully ignored, changing the subject.

Ziva feels guilty now, for not telling her. They were in love once – _they still love each other,_ her mind whispers, unable to clamp down on the smidgeon of jealousy that sprouts into being with the phrase – and Ziva knew Jen, in the wake of Paris and Serbia. Though their relationship has shifted since Ziva became her subordinate in NCIS, there have still been flashes of the friendship that was – the friendship that _is_ still there.

 _Jenny will feel betrayed._ Ziva leaves her door at an angle, checking the street outside her ever-closed blinds, then shuts the curtains to join Gibbs in bed. He welcomes her gladly, arms wrapping around her as she presses a light kiss to his lips. His hand grazes her thigh, where her knife is still strapped and hums in pride.

Ziva chuckles, faux-asking, “What is your rule? Always carry a knife?”

“Yup,” he drawls. For a while, they lay in bed, relishing in the other’s warmth and heartbeat. But eventually, Ziva asks again.

“Do more people ask of it?”

A silent nod.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Ziva feels the urge to scream. “I should have stayed in the hospital. Faced your wrath for leaving Daisy.”

“What’s done is done,” he says. “Regret’s part of life, Ziva.”

“I didn’t want it going on my record. I didn’t want-” Ziva clamps her jaw shut, realising she’s said more than she meant to. By her side, Gibbs shifts, looking down at her in the pale yellow light of her bedside lamp. Ziva ducks her head, staring away from his gaze.

“…Ziva. What aren’t you telling me?”

_Not again._

She swallows. Pauses. Hesitation is both procrastination on her part and a bid to buy herself more time to answer. Gibbs’ chest rumbles in dissatisfaction and she gives in, words she’s wanted to say to someone, anyone, leaving her in a rush.

“I did not tell my father, the last time. He sent me on a mission and I had a similar experience in losing my child. Back then, I did not have the liberty to grieve as I wished,” she says, a dark blackness only stretching wider inside her, that writhes from years-old hurts and betrayals. Ari is in there, somewhere. “When I returned, my father was dismissive and angry. He had his private doctor see to me and he did not leave the room, when he did.”

“Ziva…”

“I made mistakes,” Ziva says, wallowing in her own guilt. _My fault._ “I knew, before I left on that mission, like I knew when I returned to Daisy. While unlike the first time, as I did not know until it was too late, I _did_ bring these whispers upon myself. You do not have to protect me from idle gossip.”

“It’s not idle gossip,” growls Gibbs, voice tight. His arms wrap around her tighter, as though he might hide her from the world. “That’s _our_ kid they’re wondering about! Our dead kid! Someone hijacked Palmer’s report to Jenny, started talking to their friends about you. If Ducky talked to anyone other than Palmer, he’d already have known what you told him today.”

Fear grips her. “Everyone knows?”

“Everyone fucking knows, except Tim,” Gibbs rolls his eyes, pressing his chin to her head. “Abby got asked by a tech if it was true. She came to me, told me. Then I went to Jen. It’s being sorted, Ziva.”

 _Jen knows._ “Did…did you tell Jenny the truth of matters?”

“No.”

“Good,” Ziva whispers traitorously. She buries her head into Gibbs’ shoulder, deciding that hiding from the world sounds like a good idea.

The next day, she is called to the Director’s office.

Now she knows what to look for, she sees it everywhere. The most obvious is with Cynthia, whose smile is tremulous at best. Ziva despises her pity, anger flaring in her gut, though she keeps it wrapped beneath a calm façade.

“Officer David – the Directors will see you now.”

“Tha-” Ziva freezes. _No._ “Did you say ‘directors’?”

“Yes,” Cynthia inclines her head towards the door, apologetic. “He insists on seeing you.”

One step backwards. She wants to retreat. _No,_ she thinks, _he cannot be here. Papa cannot be here._ Ziva is frightened of what he might do or say. In no way can Jenny keep her here if Eli David wishes for Ziva to return to Israel – if she even wants to.

 _But I must see him_ , Ziva thinks, stepping forwards and entering the office. Jenny is sat at her desk. Ziva can tell that she is angry beneath her blank face, blue eyes bright and wicked. Her father is sat at the briefing table, but stands when she enters.

“Ziva. I heard what happened.”

She scoffs immediately, the fiery anger from being _pitied_ tripling a thousand fold. “It seems like everyone has. I do not need you here, _abba._ ”

Eli has his hands behind his back as he bends his head. Jenny clears her throat lightly.

“Ziva, we’re investigating the leak. I’m taking this very seriously. No-one should have had access to your medical records but me.”

“And my father,” she mutters venomously, crossing her arms. Jenny purses her lips.

“That was unavoidable. Director David made arrangements to come here as soon as he could, once Jim Palmer’s report was logged with Mossad.”

Her father interrupts. “Who was it this time?”

Ziva swears at him, snarling, “You have _no right_ to ask that!”

“This time?” Jenny’s eyes widen.

“He should not have said a word,” Ziva glares at him, but Eli is unperturbed.

“Do I have to reorganise your watchers, Ziva?” He asks, a threat more than a question. Ziva steps forwards, murderous. “I disbanded them when you asked it of me. I understand. But I will not have you harmed.”

“I lost a baby,” she says, stressing, “ _My_ body did that – not a person. You cannot protect me from all the evils of the world, _abba_ and you _cannot_ control with whom I have relations!”

“It is my duty as a father-”

“Enough.”

Ziva and Eli turn to Jenny, who stands, voice strict.

“I will not let you use my office to settle your family dispute. Director David – you came here to see to the health and wellbeing of your agent. I respect that the true reason was unsaid, but you are still within NCIS. Talk about ‘watchers’ again in my presence and you will find your relationship with the United States less than cordial.” She glares at the older man, who’s expression goes lax.

“Of course. My apologies, Director.”

“Accepted,” says Jenny, crisp. She turns her attention onto Ziva, seemingly thinking on her words. “Officer David,” she begins slowly, “I’ll also deign to remind you of your liaison position within NCIS. I give you my condolences. However…you are affiliated with us through Mossad. Any extended volume of time off from your position would require signatures from your superiors in Mossad.” Her chin dips, their eyes meeting. “Just a reminder.”

Ziva’s anger flares once, then settles as embers. She hears what Jenny is not saying. If she had remained pregnant, her father would have found out eventually – and at that point, Ziva would have no control over her life. She would have been pulled back to Israel immediately and either convinced to give up her child or to remain in Israel for the birth. Emigrating to the United States would take years, years she would never be able to give back to her child or to Gibbs, if they survived that long in her war-torn country.

“That said,” Jenny starts, “would you consider restarting your conversation? I have to say, I myself am rather curious as to who would capture your eye.”

Ziva stands taller then, smile bland and uninviting. “That is my personal business. If it becomes relevant, I may eventually reveal it. That is unlikely, however.”

Jenny does not take offence to her expression, the smile that is returned truer than her own. “And I’m sure it never will become relevant in the first place. If you have nothing left to discuss with your father, you are dismissed, Agent David.”

Concealing her smile at the title bestowed upon her – a pointed mark against Eli – Ziva looks to her father and steps forwards, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “ _Abba_. Until the next time.”

“I have one last question,” he says, before she can step away. His eyes, so like Tali’s – _so like Ari’s_ – bore into her own. “Why have you invited Natalia and Benjamin to visit you?”

Ziva shakes her head, amused. “I did not invite them. I see you have taken their requests for lack of surveillance seriously?”

“You are family,” he replies, as if it is an answer. “Why would they visit you so suddenly? Did you tell them of your accident?”

The word ‘accident’ is like a whip across her face, but she bears it. “No,” she says, “but it is related.” Ziva goes to pull away, except she has one last thought and it keeps her from moving. “ _Abba?_ ”

“Ziva?”

Hesitant, she says in a quiet voice. “I will be applying for my Green Card and American citizenship. I like it here and there are people who I do not want to leave. Please, do not stop me.”

Eli David’s face is unreadable to her. Maybe other children can read their parents like one reads a book, but that has never been the case for Ziva. He inclines his head in a way that maybe – _maybe –_ means he will consider it, but her father is not the Director of Mossad for nothing. He would lie to her face if it meant forwarding his agenda.

Pressing another kiss to his cheek, Ziva backs away, leaving the office with a shake to her step and a strange urge to cry, which she puts down to hormones from _last week’s accident_ , regaining equilibrium. For once, she does not want Gibbs’ comfort either.

Letting her feet take her down, using the stairs rather than the elevator, Ziva enters Abby’s lab with trepidation. Rock music blares through the open space, Ziva tracking Abby to where she stands beside _Major Mass-Spec_.

“Oh! Ziva!” She yells, smiling until she isn’t, turning the music off with her little remote and then standing there, fidgeting.

“…my father is here.” Ziva tells her, speaking plainly. “I could use a hug, Abby.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Abby exclaims, swooping in to wrap her in the comfiest hug Ziva has had in weeks. In Abby’s embrace, she feels like she can actually let go, her shoulders sagging. “I heard about what happened last week, too and I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Ziva, _so_ sorry. I mean, it must be hard having to deal with it and then your father, coming all the way from Israel to- to what? Why was he even here?”

“To tell me off,” Ziva says, voice muffled in Abby’s lab-coat. Abby growls.

“Ooh, bad _abba_ – couldn’t he leave you alone? You could have called him yourself, if you really needed him. I know I’d call my parents straight away, if they knew how video-calling worked, _ugh_ , I really have to teach them how to do that the next time I go back to their place-”

Abby babbles on about her parents, who Ziva remembers are deaf, while Ziva herself zones out, letting Abby drag her in a one-armed hug all around the lab and chatter directly into her ear. They’re only interrupted when a _beep_ comes from her monitors, Abby pausing to look over.

“The results came back – Gibbs will be here _any_ second,” she deduces, finally letting go of Ziva to see to it. She peers at her computer, going _ooh._ “You’d better see this, Ziva.”

Ziva comes to stand beside her, peering at the list of chemical components. “That looks familiar,” she said, trying to remember what that particular list makes the majority of.

“It should – because it’s a bomb. Our closet-case? _Totally_ making bombs in his spare time. See, the residue was all over his hands, but mixed with all the cleaning supplies, it was a bit hard to figure it out,” Abby points to a particularly high bar in the blinking chart. “But see that? That’s our mystery killer. Ducky found residue of the same material in his stomach. Didn’t take a lot to kill him, but it did anyway.”

“This is good work, Abby,” praises Ziva, smiling when Abby jumps from the _Caf-Pow_ pressed into her hand from behind. Gibbs grins as Abby exclaims his name with a sharp turn towards him.

“She’s right. Now, find out what killed him.”

Abby mock-salutes, using a low voice to say, “Yes, sir!” She slurps her _Caf-Pow_ once, before asking, “But Gibbs, I need to ask you.”

“What, Abs?”

“What do I wear to your wedding?” Abby asks, sounding distraught. “I don’t have time to make a dress by hand and you haven’t even told me the _theme_ , Gibbs!”

Gibbs glances at Ziva over her shoulder, before saying, “Just wear something nice, Abby. It’s not that hard. Ziva’s already got her dress, get her to take you out or something.”

Immediately, Ziva feels the urge to glare at him, but she’s too busy widening her eyes in shock to do so. Abby instantly turns to her, the Scuito Interrogation Mode activated.

“What kind of dress do you have? How formal?”

“I, uh…” Ziva sees Gibbs leave with a smile on his face and feels a brief, but intense hatred for her partner in that moment. At Abby’s expecting look, Ziva tries to ask herself what her aunt would wear – most likely, something outrageously green. It’s all she wears. If Ziva’s lucky, she won’t even bring a hand-crafted glass for them to smash – the one time Ari invited a girl home, Nettie went mad creating them a chalice at a local glass-blowing forge for them to smash, regardless of Ari’s own traditions and heritage.

On the spot, Ziva says, “The men will wear suits. The bride will be…” _What will I wear? Come on, David!_ Eventually, she says broadly, the word: “Sparkly.”

“Sparkly? Like, diamonds?” Abby bounces up and down. “Have you seen the dress?”

“Yes,” Ziva lies. “It is not very long. It has that, uh…material.”

“What? Silk? Satin? Taffeta?”

Confused, Ziva asks, “What is _taffeta_?”

“Taffeta – like silk, but made with polyesters and acetate,” Abby describes, like that makes any more sense than the word _taffeta._

“I do not know what it is made of,” Ziva gives up on that front, creating an imaginary wedding dress in her head and hoping she can find one that vaguely fits the description by noon, Friday. “There are jewels on the shirt.”

“Skirt?”

“No – the shirt,” Ziva argues, unable to believe what she’s doing. Shaking her head, she puts a finger up. “I will ask. But I believe you should wear what _you_ wish, not what the bride does. You are you, Abby and Gibbs would be disappointed if you were anyone else.”

“You’re sweet, sometimes, Ziva,” says Abby, before she’s crushed in another hug. This one, Ziva uses as a cover so Abby doesn’t have to see her face as she frantically wonders where the hell she is supposed to get a dress – and who would know.

The answer, of course, comes to her immediately. It is not one she is sure is worth it. But then…

Someone else comes to mind.

* * *

“Mr Gemcity and company,” charms Tim, smiling at the receptionist. On his arm, Ziva has front-row seat to the power of fame and fortune, the older woman manning the reception of the bridal boutique flushing bright pink. She even fans herself a little.

“Mr _Gemcity,_ of _course_ – right on ahead. If I might recommend the winter catalogue,” she leans over to show her cleavage expertly, Ziva struggling to contain her laughter as Tim’s smile becomes a little more painted. “Getting ahead of fashion trends is always the best route, when it comes to what you wear.”

“I’m sure my…guest, will enjoy browsing the, ah… _winter catalogue._ ” Tim nods his head, then leads Ziva on through the boutique. Two women in long pencil skirts and a man in an expensive suit wait just around the corner, down a set of glass stairs with completely unnecessary waterfalls on either side.

Tim glances at Ziva, then splits off to the side to sit on a luxurious-looking white leather sofa. “No limit,” he raises his voice, sitting down and taking one of the waiting glasses of his favourite white wine. Ziva wants to join him, but the three boutique-workers approach her with charming smiles.

“Welcome to _Francesca’s Bridal Boutique,_ ” the younger of the two women greets her. “My name is Adele. These are my co-workers, Nina-” she gestures to the older woman “-and George. Nina will do any on-site adjustments needed so you can look perfect even in the basic dress models we have here, while George will get you whatever you need – and give some great advice, while he’s at it!”

“Thank-you…Adele,” Ziva says, wary. “My name is Ziva.”

“Hello, Ziva,” George tips an imaginary hat, before asking, “So, when’s the wedding? Winter holiday? New Years? Spring? Summer?”

“…Friday,” Ziva bites her lip, cringing at their wide eyes. Fibbing, she says, “My mother’s dress was damaged during postage. The wedding is tomorrow at noon, so this really is an emergency.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” George bemoans, stepping close and curling his arm through hers. Ziva tenses, wanting to keep the peace, yet not being comfortable at all with his closeness.

Tim, swallowing down his gulp of wine, speaks up, “George? George, hi, Ziva’s not okay with touching.”

George immediately steps away, grimacing to himself before looking at her apologetically. “I’m so sorry – if we make you uncomfortable, please tell us, okay? We want this to be an amazing experience for you.”

Nodding, Ziva clears her throat, saying, “I know what sort of dress I would like, if that is acceptable.”

“That’s perfect,” Adele says. “What sort of design were you looking for? Fabrics?”

“Simple,” says Ziva, quick to make her desires known – based on the concept she threw at Abby. “Not completely floor-length, with jewelling on the shirt.”

“Lovely,” says George, as Nina makes her way across the room. “Oh, Nina, you’re a genius! Is this the sort of style you prefer?”

Ziva usually just gets on with her personal shopping. She can enjoy it, with friends – but not on her own and certainly not now. She masks her stress as well as she can for the first half an hour of ‘ _what about this?’_ and ‘ _how do you like this?_ ’, but Adele is a sponge when it comes to emotions, catching and absorbing her stress twice-over and Nina’s genius runs dry about four dresses in.

Eventually, George takes her aside.

“Ziva,” he starts quietly, “I know you don’t know me and that we’ve only met, but you seem out of sorts. Picking a dress for your wedding, especially considering the circumstances, can seem like an impossible task. But in the end, it’s a dress for a single occasion. The _event_ will be the happy part. If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem the sort who usually enjoys this sort of outing.”

Uncomfortable – knowing he really, _really_ does not know her nor her circumstances – Ziva shrugs and says, “There are too many choices.”

“Okay,” he says, “that’s fine. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to bring back some of the dresses closest to your original brief, plus a few you took a liking to, then kind of ran away from, okay? And then you’ll get rid of them, one by one, until there are two left. On Friday, you can decide which one to wear.”

“You mean…buy _two?_ ” Ziva questions, the idea monstrous to her for exactly three seconds before she remembers a crucial fact: if this relationship lasts, it won’t be her only wedding party. Relaxing an infinitesimal amount, Ziva nods. “Two,” she repeats, surer.

George smiles. “There we go! I’ll go talk to Nina and Adele, give you and Mr Gemcity a couple of minutes to chat.”

“Okay,” Ziva agrees, before going to join Tim on the sofa – seemingly saving him from the chatty receptionist and Adele, who combined, seem to overwhelm him a little. Curling up near him, Ziva takes a glass of wine, waiting until they’ve slipped away to speak.

“This is exhausting.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “I’m just _watching_ you and I’m tired. Why did I volunteer to take you to this place again?”

“You didn’t. I asked and then your agent got over-enthusiastic,” says Ziva, smiling at his befuddled look. “You have taken this very well, Timothy.”

“Well, it’s not every day your Israeli assassin co-worker gets married,” Tim says, before emphasizing, “Married to _Gibbs._ I don’t know which is more scary – you getting married to Gibbs, or Gibbs getting married to _you_.”

“Thank-you, McGee,” Ziva delights in his expression, kissing his cheek. “You are a good friend. I am also buying two dresses.”

“Okay, hold up – two? Do you _need_ two?” Tim raises an eyebrow at her, “Because I’m telling you now, these guys _will_ bring out the most expensive dresses they can.”

“I like George.”

“George is a plant,” Tim stresses, before the dresses are brought out. Like Tim said, most are hellishly expensive and out of the ten the trio bring back, Ziva can automatically score out half. With less to choose from, the work is done quickly; and then there were three.

The one she likes the most is actually the closest to her original description, except there is a long fringe to the skirt and the collar goes all the way to her neck, no sleeves in sight – and there is _sparkle_ , but it isn’t daunting or particularly noticeable. Ziva likes it, though part of her knows she would be horrified if she ever spilt something on the pure white of the fabric. A brief nightmare she had when trying it on in front of a mirror involved a glass of red wine, instead of the white Tim prefers.

“Alright there, Ziva?” Tim asks her, observing the other two dresses. “You’ve narrowed it down.”

“Yes, I have,” says Ziva, looking at them both.

They are similar in shape to the first dress – _which I will keep, regardless of these other two_ , Ziva thinks – but one has a higher waist and they both have different skirts to the first, made of flowy material that reminds Ziva of ripples on a lake to look at, but is silky to touch and impossible to get a grip on.

“Do you like them?” George asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I do,” Ziva says truthfully, pointing to the first dress, “and I will take that one, along with one of these two. I am having trouble deciding.”

“What are you having trouble with?” Nina queries.

Ziva looks between the dresses. Suddenly, the higher waist of the third dress isn’t so appealing. She tries to imagine herself wearing it and all she can see is an image of herself, swamped in a dress with a skirt that looks too big. The second, with it’s brace-like pattern of diamonds on skin-coloured fabric, seems more durable. More… _her._

“That one,” she points, getting a TV-worthy round of applause that Tim claps along to, because he’s that sort of person. She lets Tim take everything from there, arranging the express delivery of dresses to her apartment for tomorrow morning while she steps into the changing room with Nina to get some last minute adjustments.

While in the quiet of the changing room, Nina asks her, “What is your fiancé like?”

“…gruff,” Ziva answers. “He would have lost patience for all of… _this_ , an hour in.”

Nina chuckles, pinching the back of the dress and glancing at Ziva in the mirror. “This boy got a name?”

“Not a boy,” replies Ziva with a low chuckle, though she knows, intellectually, that she is only two years older than his daughter would have been. Habit bids her not to mention him by name, so she doesn’t say anything.

“Any of you have children?” Nina then asks, jarring her a little. Ziva tenses and Nina, so close to her, hands to her back, easily picks up on it. “Complicated question, darling?”

“Complicated answer. We…we both do. Did. Will.” Realising how confusing her answer is, Ziva uses Daisy as a lifeline. “We’re looking to adopt, after unfortunate events. Her name is Daisy. She is three.”

“I was adopted,” admits Nina. “I didn’t even know, until someone pointed out that my parents are darker than me put together. My adoptive parents took me in as their own and never raised me any different.”

“I hope Daisy will have the same sort of life,” Ziva says quietly, reaching to fiddle with her hair. _I will pin it to the side on Friday, I have decided._ “Though I am…obviously foreign. She is Caucasian, with very, _very_ red hair. My fiancé is a ‘silver fox’.”

“So long as you love her, it won’t matter.”

Ziva smiles. “I do love her, already. Very much.” She thinks of the mystery phone call Gibbs received this afternoon. It is Thursday – the day Louisa Beckett was supposed to call him back. He left half-way into pleasantries and she hasn’t seen him since; hopefully, it was really Beckett and she had news about Daisy. Ziva feels like her heart might burst, just thinking about it. She really has fallen hard and fast for that tiny girl.

“All done,” Nina pronounces and grateful, but exhausted, Ziva gladly leaves, wishing for a happy future, full of tiny feet and Gibbs’ smile.

On the ride back to her apartment in Tim’s hired town-car, she expresses her gratitude to her friend.

“You are often the butt of many jokes at NCIS,” she says, “but you are my friend and my appreciation for today is much.”

Tim smiles at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No problem, Ziva. Say, have your aunt and uncle arrived?”

“They were settled into their hotel this afternoon,” Ziva confirms.

“Do you want to go over there? Say hello?”

“No,” Ziva declines. “I want to sleep.”

“Cool.” Tim hesitates, before reaching for her, giving her a quick hug. Ziva smiles warmly, pressing a fond kiss to his cheek.

“Tomorrow,” she says gleefully, “I will be a married woman, McGee.”

He grins back at her. “Ziva Gibbs-David.”

“David-Gibbs,” Ziva frowns as she says it, hearing the problem. Humming in dissatisfaction, she agrees with him. “Gibbs-David.”

In the privacy of her head, she thinks warmly, _it will do._


	5. Chapter 5

The courthouse is busy. Many others in suits and plainer white dresses than her own – and some far, _far_ more elaborate – bustle about the antechamber. Ziva has a long coat to hide her dress on, the whole party silently agreeing to keep Ducky out of the loop as he pesters Gibbs as to where his bride is – even Ziva’s Aunt Nettie and Uncle Ben keeping quiet, though Nettie let out a single cackle when she arrived.

It had been an eventful reunion for the three David’s that morning, Tony having gone at Gibbs’ behest to drop them off to Ziva’s, while Tim had called a fancy town-car. Never one to turn down fancy cars, Ben had taken Tim’s ride. Nettie, on the other hand, relished the chance to speak to the man who mistakenly believed her to be Ziva’s stalker ex. To Ziva’s eternal regret, they got on like a house on fire and Tony even complimented her dress, cementing Nettie’s positive opinion of him – no-one _ever_ compliments the lurid green gowns she wears to formal events.

Nettie also brought a glass for Gibbs to stamp on. Ducky, at that point, correctly assumed Gibbs’ bride was Jewish, then asked Ziva directly if she went to the same synagogue as her. Amanda Lee, unable to contain her giggles, had started laughing uproariously.

Eventually, they are called in by a clerk, who calls out, “Gibbs-David.”

“ _Dah-veed!_ ” Half the party chorused back, Ducky’s expression captured on two different cell-phones.

“Oh my – _Ziva?_ Really, Jethro?”

The gig up, Ziva sheds her coat, handing it to her uncle. Gibbs gets his first eyeful of her dress and he seems…happy enough. His arm wraps around her waist and she, his, in turn – Ziva will ask his opinion of it, later. They lead the procession of guests into the room, which is only a little smaller than the conference room at NCIS.

“Surprise,” Gibbs then says, voice dry. Ziva raises an eyebrow.

“Surprise?” She repeats, before glancing back as the door opens once more, admitting Louisa Beckett. Ziva’s eyes go wide as she spies Daisy on her hip, a white ribbon wrapped around her head in a pretty bow. “Daisy?”

“Papers got signed before you arrived,” Gibbs says, taking the toddler from a smiling Louisa. She drools a little, arms waving about. Clearly, Gibbs is no stranger to her.

Out of the blue, Abby squeals. “She’s signing!” The forensic scientist wastes no time in signing back at the girl. It takes Ziva a second to notice the pale grey hearing-aid in one ear, a new addition.

“Who is this?” Aunt Nettie asks loudly, Tony the one to explain things to her. Ziva is too busy, enraptured by the sight of Daisy in Gibbs’ arms, the older man signing back to her slowly. Truthfully, the ‘signing’ looks like little more than waving arms on Daisy, to Ziva, but if Gibbs and Abby recognise it, who is she to deny it?

In any case, she’s far too jealous of Gibbs at the moment to care much.

Gibbs catches her eye, lip twitching before he deliberately signs something to Daisy. The waving ceases briefly, before she copies him. With how close they are, Ziva has already been hit thrice by Daisy’s arm-waving, so when Gibbs turns her around to be held by Ziva, all she has to do it put her arms up.

“Hello, _ahuvi_.” She whispers, adjusting her grip and making the decision to reach up with one hand to Gibbs’ face. They meet halfway for a kiss, before the magistrate clears their throat.

“Apologies, but we only have this room for so long. If you might arrange yourself as you will, we’ll begin in a moment.”

Lips parting, Ziva murmurs, “ _Ani ohev otkha, Gibbs.”_

“Love you, too, Ziva,” he whispers in reply. They turn towards the magistrate at his desk, their guests at their back like a shield. It does not take long for them to come to the main part of the ceremony, Nettie making sure to interrupt before they kiss to place her hand-crafted glass on the ground. Ziva lets Gibbs step on it, the man clearly wary as he does so.

“Just slam your foot down,” her Uncle Ben advises, holding Nettie shoulders as she bounces in place.

The glass is broken. Then like Mary Poppins, Nettie brings out a handheld hoover out of her purse, cleaning up the shards while Ziva and Gibbs step back, getting congratulations from every one of their party. Ziva feels as if she is on a cloud, spying Jimmy with a camera over Michelle’s shoulder. She makes a mental note to get a copy of the recording, to watch in her own time.

“Let me see your daughter, Ziva,” Nettie insists once the clerk starts to politely shuffle them out. Reluctant, Ziva hesitates, only for Gibbs to whisper in her ear.

“It’s alright. She’s coming home with us tonight. Got everything set up. Louisa says it’s fine.”

“…okay,” Ziva murmurs, not wanting to let her baby go. Daisy, the complete opposite, seems to enjoy the cooing from Nettie and everyone else who peers at her over her shoulder. Feeling bereft, Ziva crosses her arms, waiting and watching for the moment she can take Daisy back.

“Ziva,” Gibbs distracts her. Not having exchanged rings in front of the magistrate – not having planned to at all – she’s surprised to find him taking a chain out from under his shirt, two entwined silver rings hanging from the end. She reaches to touch them, turning them this way and that. “Thought we might as well have something to commemorate this with. Could get proper rings next time.”

“Next time, yes,” agrees Ziva, tucking the chain back out of sight. Gibbs cranes his neck to kiss her and she smiles, happy they can do this in front of their co-workers, at least in private – there is still work to consider.

Nevertheless, Ziva is thrilled. She is _married_ – bound by matrimony and God to another, as well as love, though they might not say it often. While in reality it does not matter so much, _legally_ they are bound together. It does not worry Ziva that Gibbs has had previous marriages, though part of her wonders if they will ever hold such animosity towards each other.

She hopes it will never be so.

Louisa Beckett has Ziva sign a few documents in conjunction with Gibbs before they leave for a wedding lunch – not guardianship as such, like him, but forms naming Ziva both Daisy’s emergency and secondary guardian, for when Gibbs is unavailable. Apparently, Beckett had heard enough horror stories from parents trying to adopt their step-children to come prepared.

“I’ve got my eye on things,” she assures them. “And my boss is letting me keep a hold of Daisy’s case, so your circumstances won’t become a problem later. I’ll be writing detailed notes anyway, in case of any unfortunate incidents and I’ll post you copies every time Daisy’s case-file is updated.”

“Thank-you for your diligence in this matter,” Ziva inclines her head, eyes darting to the hearing aid. There is no tube leading through Daisy’s nose anymore, she has noticed. “Has anything else been discovered, regarding her health, since we last saw her?”

“An appointment was made with her doctor at the requested hospital for next Saturday afternoon,” says Beckett with a grin, glancing at Gibbs. “I left the details with your husband, Special Agent Gibbs.”

“We’ll get the full run-down next week,” Gibbs promises her. Ziva nods, trusting him, before Beckett bids them adieu. When they get to their cars, Ziva sees newly-installed car-seats in both.

“You thought ahead,” she murmurs. “I like, very much so.”

“Good.” Gibbs says, before stealing their daughter – _daughter,_ Ziva relishes at the thought, _I have a daughter_ – from her new great-aunt. It takes Ziva a moment to recognise the naked love in his eyes, a true smile growing on his face as he swings the squealing toddler around, making faces.

Nettie sighs, saying to Ziva in Hebrew, “You have a beautiful family, my love.”

Ziva smiles in return, telling her in the same tongue, “And he speaks Hebrew.”

Proving her point, Gibbs replies to Nettie. “Thank-you for the compliment, Mrs Abadi.” He ignores Tony and Tim’s shared look of befuddlement, face close to cracking from how wide his smile is after Daisy presses her face to his cheek wetly, clearly meaning to kiss him in return.

“She’s so _friendly,_ ” Jimmy shakes his head in amazement. Ziva hums in agreement, watching Michelle bites her lip as Amanda peers at him; Jimmy doesn’t seem to notice his audience. “I wasn’t so friendly as a kid.”

“Did you not have friends?” Amanda asks, causing Jimmy to startle. Ziva winks at Michelle, catching the small grin as she looks back at her boyfriend and pseudo-daughter.

“I-I-I had friends, just…not a lot,” says Jimmy.

Tony claps a hand on his shoulder. “Pathetic, Jimbo. You could at least _try_ lying about it.” Jimmy sighs at Tony’s comment, while Amanda lets out yet another giggle. Ziva feels as if nothing could go wrong. Ducky and Benjamin are involved in a conversation about Turkish dining practices; Abby is poking McGee, having somehow discovered he went with Ziva dress-shopping; Tony ribs Jimmy about his personality traits in front of the Lee’s; and Gibbs amuses Daisy, using all his focus to keep her entertained. She is surrounded by her family and they are all _happy_ , which makes Ziva happy in turn.

That, of course, is when the bomb goes off.

* * *

It must seem strange to the local LEOs when they finally arrive. Prior to that, when the original blast settles, the NCIS agents react appropriate to their training. For Gibbs, this is to take control, holding tight to a confused Daisy and organising them. With the help of his team, he rounds up their non-combatant wedding party members, herding them to the safety of a nearby corner of wall, below the decorative wheelchair access. Strangely enough, the status of ‘non-combatant’ does not include Ziva’s aunt Nettie, who decides now is the perfect time to take a gun out of her handbag.

At Tim’s wide eyes, she shrugs. “My little brother is the Director of Mossad. I am never without a weapon – unlike his fool of a twin!”

“Nettie-” Ben starts to whine back at her, but Nettie shuts him up with a look that causes Ziva to smile, even as she takes her own gun out from the holster on her thigh, hiding under her skirt. Gibbs takes one look at her and nods to himself, clearly wondering why he’d thought she’d _not_ brought her firearm to her own wedding.

Taking cover, the MCRT and company works to establish exactly what is happening, quickly discovering that it is no coincidence that they are here at the same time as an attack, as a half-dozen masked Caucasian men surround them with sub-automatic weapons from a distance of several yards. Their access to the cars is cut off and anyone that tries to run is shot at.

“Where are the freaks from Israel, huh?” One shouts, vitriol clear. “The spies from Asia! Israel’s CIA! We know you’re here – where are you?”

“The hell?” Abby mutters what is on everyone’s mind. Ziva’s grasp on her weapon tightens and she flinches as they gun down a nearby civilian couple – Chinese immigrants, if she’s not mistaken. She looks back at Gibbs, whose grip on Daisy is too tight, wondering if their happy dream will be shattered by a spray of bullets.

“Tell me you have your badge, boss,” Tony mutters, his own already in hand as he raises it high, catching the attention of the brigands. He stands from his crouch slowly, standing in front of Ben and Amanda. “NCIS! I am unarmed, unlike my companions, who will _gladly_ kill you if you aim any of those guns our way!”

The closest masked men seem to have already registered the handguns, but from nearby they can hear screams as another spray of shots are fired – some of the screams clearly from pain, rather than fear. One scream becomes a voice, pleading with their husband not to die. Ziva can tell from their tone that even now, the wife knows their begging is a lost cause.

“What the fuck is an NCIS?” The nearest man questions, voice shaky. Tony steps forwards, hands raised, badge glinting gold in the sun. Ziva feels unrealistically glad that he is wearing silk today, though she knows it won’t make any difference. While silk was the predecessor to Kevlar, it does nothing to stop high-calibre weapons of the modern world.

“Naval Criminal Investigate Service,” Tony says, voice slow and calm. “Navy detectives. Bad luck for you today – ‘cause you’re pinning down the whole entire Major Crime Response Team. You hurt any of us, you’re going to Gitmo for terrorism.”

An exaggeration. Probably a needed one, considering the ‘Israel CIA’ they’re searching for are among their party. _Spies,_ Ziva wants to scoff, sunlight glistening over the dark barrel of her weapon. It is aimed at the nearest gunman. _I am an assassin._

She is angry. She is terrified. Her family are behind her. Her team, her friends, her aunt and uncle, her _husband_ _and_ _daughter_ – they are all behind her. Everyone she cares about. Her everything is within a ten-foot radius and there are four sub-autos raised in their direction. They could be seconds from death. Seconds from oblivion.

“We aren’t being paid to kill random people, but we will, if we think they could be the ones we’re looking for – if you can prove you and yours ain’t Asian scum, then you can go.”

Tony’s grasp on his badge visibly tightens. “That will be very hard, seeing as my god-daughter’s birth father is from Hong Kong.”

“You ain’t her god-father, Dinozzo,” says Gibbs from behind him. Tony scoffs.

“Excuse you, boss, but your wife says otherwise.”

“I have not said _anything,_ ” Ziva denies.

“Exactly.”

“Shut up!” The masked man steps forwards, cocking his gun. “You- you get down on the ground!”

Sirens sing in the distance. Ziva refuses to take her chances with her handgun, not yet. Tony slowly kneels.

“What’s your name?”

“None of your fucking business – and I meant people from Asia, not China.”

“Take a Geography class,” Tony replies. “Asia is a continent. China and Hong Kong are countries. _Asian scum_ aren’t Israelis or Palestinians. Who are you _actually_ looking for? What is your job?”

“ _Shut the fuck up!_ ” The man shoots the ground nearby and at least one ricochets to hit Tony, scraping blood across his face. Their company know enough to drop even closer to the floor than they’re crouched, but Ziva still hears a gasp of pain. One glance behind her sees it is Tim with the blood gushing from a score across his temple, Ducky doing his best to see to it in an instant. A few moments later, she feels the burning across her own hairline and the sting of a graze on the same side of her jaw.

Ziva does not know what to do. Everything is too precarious. _They_ are the targets, they the David’s – though they don’t know why. Racist mercenaries are the least of Mossad’s concern.

“What are your demands?” Tony asks, “Your _exact_ demands. No-one else needs to die.”

“We want Director Ahveed,” he says, cocking his gun again. “We got a tip-off and we’ll follow it, if it means no more Americans have to die for his fucking war in the Middle-East!”

Ziva jolts. “You mean, Director _David?_ Eli David?”

“They said a Director Ahveed was here with his daughter,” the man reveals, getting asynchronous nods from his fellows, “so we’re going to kill him and stop American soldiers from dying!”

There is a moment of silence, before a raised voice stops her cold. “Then I must shoot myself.”

Brain momentarily falling out of loop, it takes Ziva too long to turn and see her uncle Benjamin – her father’s twin, both by birth and by face – standing there, her aunt Nettie’s gun in hand. It is already pressed to his head as he steps forwards, despite the hands grasping uselessly at his silk shirt.

“I am Eli David,” he lies, bold and silencing. The armed men stare at him. “And if I die, it will be a martyr your cause cannot support. You wish for American men to stop dying in the Middle-East? I would tell you this is not the way, but you would not believe any of the words I said.”

 _Abba would not want this,_ Ziva thinks, blood cool in her veins. It is a horror that is frost, slowly creeping along and numbing everything is touches. Ziva has long known that her father would have chosen her to die first, out of all her siblings and she has learnt to accept that – but this is different. Uncle Benjamin had never chosen violence as his first option. Like Ducky, he is a doctor of medicine, who travelled as a healer during his time in the Israeli Defence Corps. Eli had always respected Benjamin’s wish never to pick up arms and he would not want his brother to die in his place. It would be the ultimate sacrifice on Ben’s part – one that goes against everything he believes in.

“… _boss!_ We’ve got a _problem!_ ”

When the LEOs arrive, finally, it is to a group of armed assailants in a stand-off with a man holding a gun to his head. Possibly the worst ambush of all time, the men have grouped together, falling in and out of line to argue with their boss about what to do. The only rule they seem to have is to not kill allies, because despite the more blood-thirsty ones trying to shoot them en masse, none of their fellows raise arms against them when they intervene.

Had they not been armed, Ziva imagines the riot police would have assaulted them already. But, despite the three guns between them – Michelle, like Nettie, had one in her purse and Tony had one at his back – Ziva knows they also might have taken them, had they not had her group as hostages.

 _It must be a strange sight, to see a wedding party armed and ready to kill._ Ziva wonders banally if her gun matches her dress or not, feeling blood dribble down her neck.

“This is stupid,” Ziva mutters, reaching to grasp her uncle’s free hand. He looks back at her, hand holding the gun shaking from lactic-acid build-up. She tugs him, hard and he stumbles backwards into the group. Quickly, Nettie removes the gun from him and with Amanda, Daisy and Abby, he is sat at the back of the group. On the fringes with Tony and Jimmy, Ziva closes ranks even further.

To her disgust, the mercenaries don’t even care.

“This won’t end well. Someone outside of their group will get shot,” Tony says bluntly. Nettie, in the middle of scolding Ben rapidly in Hebrew, stops short, eyes glistening. Amanda bursts into tears. Ducky doesn’t look too far behind.

A news helicopter appears at some point. Ziva’s stomach rolls as she looks away, muttering to her family, “Look to the ground.” Most look up once, but follow her directive, anyway.

“Damn reporters,” murmurs Jimmy, watching as Michelle hauls Amanda into her lap, hiding their faces behind their long hair.

Abby whispers loudly, “I don’t want to die, Gibbs.”

“You won’t, Abs. None of us will.”

“But they-”

“None of us are going to die,” Gibbs reiterates, reaching for his pockets and growling. “Damn phone…Michelle, Nettie, what the hell do you have in your bags? Does no-one have a phone?”

“I do,” Tony and Tim say as one, Tim’s voice audibly slurring. Tony continues with a shudder, “Never go anywhere without one. You left yours in your car, right?”

“Yeah, my car, which is less than twenty damn feet away!” Gibbs stews, glaring at the mercenaries. Daisy, sat in Abby’s arms, wriggles and reaches for him, recognising his voice. He shuffles to sit beside Abby, who transfers the little girl into his arms.

“Who should we call, boss?” asks Tony, phone at the ready.

“Not you. Ziva.” Gibbs says shortly, looking at her. Ziva silently takes the phone.

“And who do you want her to call, Jethro?” Ducky questions.

Ziva answers for him.

“My father.”

* * *

In the quiet of her apartment, Ziva stares at her dress.

The fabric is dusty, no longer pure white. Red stains the edge of the bodice. There’s a shadow of an outline from where someone’s new black glove among the riot police grazed the taffeta. Her nightmare of a purple-red stain from wine seems ridiculous, now. Ziva should have known her happiness would be shattered the _moment_ she thought everything to be perfect in her world.

“It is not what I would have expected,” says Eli, who swallows half a glass of her good alcohol. He stares at the dress, too. “I did not understand. Now, I do. You do not just like America and the people you work with. You love them. You love that man, whom you married today under my nose.”

“You disbanded my watchers.” Ziva echoes a past conversation.

“Because you asked.”

“Not because of _this_ ,” Ziva stresses, looking to him in a bid for him to understand. “None of this was planned _, abba._ I married Gibbs because I love him, not… _not_ for citizenship or any other kind of fallacy.”

“You are adopting a child together. Daisy Chen.”

“Yes,” Ziva clenches her fists, grabbing at a pillow on her sofa and setting it on her lap. “Yes, we are. I could not let her go.”

Eli stares at her dress for so long – and then he throws his glass at the wall. His anger makes her flinch. He glares at the dress, then speaks in a low voice.

“Today is only one reason why you should let me protect you. How many knew of your nuptials?”

“They were after you, _abba_ , not me. They found Uncle Ben and labelled him as you for their convenience!” Ziva claims, incensed despite the legitimacy of his question. NCIS or Mossad – someone would discover the reason, in time. She finally stands, stalking forwards to point at him, close and personal. “You put him in danger, not me! He was being a good uncle, a good man-”

“And what would you have me do, Ziva? Watch him as if he were me? Invade his life again, when he has made it clear he does not want my security nor my methods?” Eli questions her, referencing conversations she has never heard, things she has never known of. Eli glowers. “My brother…my brother is a complicated man. You would do well to keep yourself at a distance.”

“From my own uncle?”

“From danger,” he corrects, a touch of softness invading his expression. “It is as you said. They found Benjamin and labelled him as me. While your uncle refuses my protection, he is in as much danger as I would be, in his place. Compromising the safety of you and yours will not do you any favours. Not for him. Not for us. I have decided for you, now. It will be so.”

It takes too long for Ziva to understand. So many things lately have taken her too long to grasp. Ziva staggers back. The word _abba_ escapes her like a ghost of a word. It barely comes from her at all. Eli reaches out, grasping her firmly, hands holding her cheeks close.

He presses their foreheads together as she pleads with him.

“Do not leave me.”

“Ziva, I have not been here for a very, very long time,” he says and it is almost kind, his voice. Ziva feels cut loose, like the strings to her own personal marionette have been sliced. “I will send for your belongings in Haifa and Tel Aviv-”

“No, no, _abba-_ ”

Eli continues as if she hadn’t even spoken, “-and send them here, to this apartment. I will buy it, then sell it to another. You will collect your things and take them to your husband’s home and we will not see each other again as father and daughter.”

Ziva grasps his suit like a child. “What about Mossad?”

“I will arrange the paperwork, but I understand your application to NCIS must be done by yourself.” He says, thumbs wiping away the tears that have leaked from her eyes. His voice is truly soft, then. “I have not seen you cry since Tali. Not even when…” He lets the sentence trail off, but they both know he is referring to the mission, the one with the bath of blood and the unwanted assassination of another Mossad agent, of whom Ziva never spoke of again after discovering what her father did.

“I have cried since,” she admits to him, reaching further upwards, grasping the hands which hold her. “Much, lately.”

Eli kisses her forehead.

“Will I see you again?”

“It will be inevitable,” he sighs, then lets go of her. Ziva nods in return, containing her trembling lip as he walks away. Eli spares one last glance at her dress at the stairs. “Truly, it is not what I expected.”

Ziva swallows her tears, saying, “It is not the one I will wear at the second ceremony, when Daisy’s adoption is finalised for the both of us, when my citizenship is true. There will be another wedding, then. Another dress.”

Her father smiles and for once, Eli looks happy. “I hope you look like your mother in it.”

“I do,” Ziva promises, before watching him depart from her apartment and her life, a smile on his face. He leaves her behind, heart crumbling inside her chest as she loses the last member of her immediate blood family, without even the courtesy of the reason being _death_.


	6. Chapter 6

Rivka David was born in Tel Aviv, in a hospital that was destroyed long before Ziva was old enough to care. Her life was hard and often, she thought it unworthy to live. That changed when she graduated from university, a degree in nursing her hard-earned, hard-fought _proof_ that she could thrive as one with _mutalazimat dawin_ among a world of people without it.

She passed on that strength to her daughters – one of whom needed support more than the other, she would quietly admit to her husband over a snifter of brandy. Ziva and Tali: her beautiful daughters. Only one would go on to live their full life. When Tali was sixteen, she died in a bombing of a café she used to visit and Rivka, distraught, became depressed as a result. Her marriage fell apart and Eli David, already having been Director of Mossad for many years before, withdrew his kindness and humour and became the stone-faced man so many already feared.

Eventually, Rivka left Haifa, the city where she had raised her children, making the decision to move to France. It was a welcome change, though people were not welcoming and her remaining daughter never forgave her for leaving. In a freak accident, Rivka died when four cars collided and her bus was turned upside down, breaking her neck in the fall. Eli David had her body returned to Israel to be buried with her family. Ziva David used to visit the grave at least once every year on either of their dates of death.

Ziva does not know where her brother is buried, just like she does not know how her father could abandon her.

Three weeks after Eli cuts himself out of her life, they finish with a case that involved a young man trying to keep the child his girlfriend bore as a surrogate. Or rather, Gibbs and the MCRT does; Ziva is at home in Gibbs’ house with Daisy, waiting for Jenny Shepard’s approval to return as a probationary special agent. She only knows about the case because Tony keeps her updated with half a dozen texts every hour, telling her exactly what he’s been doing and how rowdy Gibbs has been in the four days they’ve taken to find the missing newborn.

Many things have changed since she moved in, putting it off until the day before the sale goes through. Her landlord had helped pack her car with all her boxes, assuring her he’d sell off her furniture and send her the proceeds. Personally, Ziva doubts she will see the money, but she doesn’t particularly care about it, either.

She still does not know Gibbs’ true opinion of her forced move into his home.

He was agreeable upon hearing the circumstances, yes, but it is not the same as planning in advance. Ziva had wanted to keep her apartment for the inevitable times when either one of them wanted some space. Now she has no choice, except live with him.

Even considering Daisy, it is not ideal. They wanted to take it slow. With her moving in, however and Daisy having already been set up in Kelly’s old room – and Ziva had been proud of him when she realised where Gibbs had placed the nursery, though she still hasn’t asked any further than what he gave – things had sped up. Ziva’s books line the empty shelves in the front hall, her towels stacked in cupboards and the photo of her as a child with Tali and Ari hidden amongst a new arrangement of Gibbs’ family.

Ziva still does not know how to interpret his reaction, there. Ziva had put the picture amongst a grouping of people she did not know, thinking she recognised as his parents and Shannon’s family and he had stopped still when he saw it the first time, staring. He had disappeared into the nursery with Daisy shortly thereafter, signing to her rather than speaking. He’d ignored her when she asked what time they were putting Daisy to bed.

Small stressors. Then, this kidnapping case – one that had put Gibbs on over-drive. Every night, he came home and hogged Daisy, sitting her on his lap during dinner and rocking her to sleep hours later, with barely a word to Ziva.

Frankly, they talk more at work than they do at home. With her suspension, Ziva and Gibbs have barely talked at all – except when it comes to Daisy.

“I took her to the pool today,” Ziva tells him. “She was very happy in the water.”

“Yeah?” Gibbs grunts, tucking the toddler into her high-chair. Ziva notices, if only because it’s the first time Gibbs has put her in it in a week. “She a good swimmer?”

“It was a tiring hour for her,” says Ziva in a knowing voice. Gibbs nods in understanding. Because of Daisy’s Down Syndrome, she has low muscle tone – meaning exercise is difficult for her and extremely worth it, in order to build up her muscles. Ziva tells him, “She fell asleep in the changing room.”

“Hmm – are you a tired girl? Are you a sleepy little girl?” Gibbs chuffs Daisy, feeding her dinner while Ziva separates a large box of rice onto two plates. Part of her grates at being the housewife, wanting to get back to work – but another part feels guilty for it. She is looking after Daisy, her own daughter. Why is she complaining about that?

Caught up in her thoughts, she misses how Gibbs calls her names, blinking rapidly when he gets up to come to her side. “Ziva?

“…sorry. I was deep in thought.”

“Clearly,” he says, watching her. They stand there by the kitchen counter, watching each other, until Gibbs finally speaks again. “I thought you would take them down.”

“Take what down?” Ziva questions, before realising he means the photos. “No,” she shakes her head. “Why would I take them down? They were- _are_ your family, even if you haven’t seen them in many years.”

“Shannon’s parents didn’t like me,” he says, almost pressing. “She insisted on having their anniversary photo up.”

“Then it will stay up,” Ziva replies. It is an easy choice, one she would not understand if it was any different. A question floats through her mind. “Who took them down?”

For a moment, Gibbs is silent, only Daisy’s coos and smacking audible. Then, he says, “My ex-wives. ‘Cept Diane. She was…controlling, but she took Shannon into account. Too much, sometimes. Steph tried to take them down when we got back to the US. Big fight, that night.”

“And your first wife?”

Gibbs shrugs. “Took ‘em all down, except the pictures of Kelly. Fresh start. Didn’t last long.” He doesn’t say any more on the matter, kissing her cheek as he grabs his plate. “Thanks for dinner.”

“…no problem. It is not as if I cooked it.”

“I’ll make dinner tomorrow,” he offers, the both of them going to sit at the square dining table on either side of Daisy. She makes a mess as they eat, somehow managing to paint her high-chair tray red despite having eaten all her vegetable mush.

Playing with her knife, Ziva says, “I miss working. I want to come back to NCIS, soon.”

“Scuttlebutt says you’re already signed up to FLETC,” Gibbs informs her through a mouth of stir-fry. Ziva’s eyes brighten.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, scowling slightly. “Jenny put Michelle on your desk, though. Says she’s my new probie.”

Her world shifts sideways. “I am not going to be on the MCRT?”

“No idea. Being in a relationship didn’t change our work-ethic, don’t see why it would now we’re married…part from Daisy.” Gibbs seems uneasy. “Co-workers with kids aren’t allowed in the field together, usually. Too much hazard.”

“With whom we are, Daisy will always be in some measure of danger,” Ziva argues. “This is why she will be in the NCIS daycare, rather than the local daycare.”

Gibbs nods, remembering their agreement.

Continuing, Ziva states, “We work well together and with our skillsets, our jobs will be life-threatening at times, perhaps more for me, if my skills are exploited as they should be. Placing us together is only a problem for Human Resources, which can be run around by placing me under another’s jurisdiction.”

“Dinozzo already takes Jen’s orders,” mumbles Gibbs. “Could get the chain of command muddled, but if he’s officially under her, but working for me, then he could be your superior officer.”

“Tony respects your authority-” Ziva starts, only to be interrupted by Daisy. Not having yet grasped Gibbs’ ability to talk and act simultaneously in regards to their child, she reaches to fix Daisy’s problem, said problem being a thrown spoon that she wants back. Once it is again within Daisy’s grasp, calming the toddler, Ziva continues. “Tony respects your authority. He would understand, if it was explained to him.”

Gibbs stews, clearly agreeing, but having other things to think about. Settling into the silence, Ziva eats, occasionally tending to Daisy. She breaks the silence to ask Gibbs a question.

“Will you teach me American Sign Language? For Daisy?”

“…sure,” he nods. “You can practice with Abby, too.”

“Her parents are deaf,” Ziva acknowledges.

“Yeah. She has partial hearing loss in one ear, as well. Can’t hear the higher ranges,” Gibbs informs her, surprising Ziva – it isn’t exactly listed in her file, at least not the one Ziva had read a few years ago. “She doesn’t like to talk about it. S’why her music gets so loud.”

“And why she does not hear you coming,” observes Ziva, figuring it out. “Her right ear?” Gibbs replies positively. “Why does she not have a hearing aid?”

“Won’t. She has full hearing in her left ear. Says it’s enough for her. Don’t talk to her about it. She’s sensitive.”

“I will not,” Ziva vows, mulling over the shared characteristics of Abby and Daisy. She would not have thought Abby to have anything less than perfect hearing, but that is her fault for not asking or observing well enough. In hindsight, it makes perfect sense.

Daisy’s hearing loss is extensive. She is completely deaf in one ear, due to a previous ear-infection gone bad and partially deaf in her other – opposite to Abby, in this respect. Her sight is less than average, though the doctors aren’t sure whether or not her reactions aren’t on par alongside her development, or whether she really doesn’t have twenty-twenty vision. As per usual for those with Down Syndrome, she has hypotonia – low muscle tone – as well as Celiac disease – a gluten allergy – hypothyroidism – temperature and energy regulation problems from a low-functioning thyroid gland – and congenital heart disease.

There are many problems. Daisy’s early intervention team were overly-concerned about Ziva and Gibbs’ reactions, but neither outwardly showed any sign of panic to the doctors – though at home, it was a different story and perhaps one of the most emotional evenings they shared since the miscarriage. While Gibbs returned to work immediately upon the adoption, he had shown up to more than his fair share of doctor’s appointments, Ziva describing to him the ones he missed and keeping triplicate copies throughout the city of her medical records, in case anything happens.

The original weight-loss described by the doctor when they first found Daisy turned out not to be as severe as imagined, though she’s certainly put on more than a few pounds since. In any case, the gastric tube is unnecessary, now and Daisy, luckily, doesn’t seem to have any problems with food textures. Ziva even discovered that she has different likes and dislikes – mango being a like and banana being a dislike. It is thrilling to discover parts of Daisy’s personality.

“I will be going to FLETC, then.” Ziva mulls over the opportunity. Being signed up means she’s definitely got into NCIS, but as discussed, doesn’t mean she’ll be allowed onto the MCRT.

She finishes her meal. Gibbs cleans up, leaving her to go through Daisy’s exercises on the living room floor, stretching out her arms and legs. When she tries to sit up, Ziva helps her, praising her for her enthusiasm.

“Kids love smiles,” Gibbs says by the wall, coffee in hand. Ziva can smell it from across the room, pungent and heavenly. “Even if she can’t hear properly…”

The question leaves her suddenly. “Am I welcome here, Gibbs? I know we discussed keeping my apartment prior to the wedding, but-”

“You’re welcome, Ziva,” he interrupts her, rushing to get the words out. There is a significant pause, before he says slowly, “I want you here. Not just because you’re my wife.”

“…it helps, though.”

“Well, _yeah,_ ” he rolls his eyes and Ziva watches as Gibbs settles down beside her, moving Daisy’s arm around, mimicking her exercises. It’s almost a cover for him, so he can talk to her, be close to her. “And you’re Daisy’s mom. You need to be here. We both need you here.”

“And you want me here, too,” Ziva says softly. She kisses his cheek in silent thanks, smiling again when he wraps his arm around her waist and settles them both close together on the floor. Ziva leans forwards to tend to Daisy, feeling like the world outside is for tomorrow.

There will be other challenges, no doubt about it and there will be more problems to deal with. More death, more murder, more screaming. _Head. Gun. Brains._ There will be other victims.

Ziva lives on, knowing that for now, she has solace and hope in the form of the man at her back and the little girl in front of her.

She has her family and she is happy.


End file.
